


When the sun shines, we'll shine together

by Sunnyrea



Series: Please, Please, Please [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, M/M, Original Character(s), Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is having problems with his wife, it's tough enough being a copper, and then Mycroft Holmes starts sending him gifts.</p><p>(In which Mycroft Holmes courts Gregory Lestrade and then it become so much more)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sincerely

**Author's Note:**

> So the musical aid to this story is a [mix by severussnap](http://8tracks.com/serverussnap/mystrade-mix). Specifically the song "[Umbrella](http://youtu.be/sestSq6hRHI)" by The Baseballs, a cover which (in my opinion) surpasses the original and gives this story its title. But I think if you're a mystrade shipper then you probably knew the minute you saw the title, didn't you?
> 
> EDIT: I have also cast some major characters: [Main/Family Lestrade](http://sunnyrea.tumblr.com/post/89661131977/sherlock-please-please-please-casting-greg), [The Yard](http://sunnyrea.tumblr.com/post/89676001582/sherlock-please-please-please-casting-the) and [Greg's Significant Others](http://sunnyrea.tumblr.com/post/93887095862/sherlock-please-please-please-casting)
> 
> I would also like to thank Caz, [NumberThirteen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberThirteen), for a retroactive Britt pick on this story! It was so lovely of you to jump in even after this has been up a while and help me make it even better!

Greg Lestrade stands behind the crime scene tape at the culmination of a three day long investigation. Donovan hands him a coffee absently while she orders around two of the new PCs. Greg feels a headache coming on. 

Yes, they found the culprit with the aid of everyone’s favorite ‘consulting detective’ but did it have to end with a gunshot? Now their original killer is shot by his own hand and John Watson is sitting in the back door of an ambulance getting a long gash on his head looked at. Sherlock, of course, is hovering over the gurney of the suspect turned corpse with a desire to see ‘one last thing’ which will probably seal the whole dramatic deal and confirm everything he had been very pointedly pointing out these past few days. Sometimes Greg thinks Sherlock is only able to solve cases dramatically, boom and bang and some maniacal laughter. 

Greg drinks some of his coffee. It could use sugar.

“Sir?” Greg turns to Donovan as she holds up a clip board. Greg glances over the initial crime scene description sheet then signs off. Donovan nods then points at his coffee. “Another?”

Greg laughs. “Barely started on this one.”

She tilts her head. “Well, you look like you’re into 'needing a double' territory.”

“I’m fine.”

She gives him another look then turns on her heel and heads toward Sherlock, probably to tell him off if she can think up a reason. Greg rubs the line in the middle of his forehead then drops his hand, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen on and sees no voicemails or texts. He stares at it a moment longer then puts the mobile back in his pocket.

“Nothing from your wife?”

Greg starts in surprise and nearly spills his coffee over his wrist. He turns to see a tall man beside him, just outside the caution tape, and in front of a black town car.

“Mr. Holmes?” Greg asks because, though his visits are infrequent, anyone who has a lasting connection to Sherlock Holmes has met his brother in one way or another.

“No message?” Mr. Holmes points about a foot off the ground with the point of his umbrella, vaguely indicating Greg’s general location and, thus, his mobile.

“She’s an anaesthetist, changing hospital hours.”

“And I am sure that’s the whole of it.”

Greg frowns. “Can I help you, Mr. Holmes?”

He breathes in through his nose slowly and taps his umbrella on the pavement. “I have a vested interest in this case and came to assure the conclusion.” He glances toward Sherlock’s direction then back to Greg. “And, of course, my brother.”

“He’s fine.”

“As I see.”

“John will be fine too.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Holmes tilts his head. “That, however, remains to be seen.”

Greg opens his mouth but realizes he does not need to ask what Mr. Holmes means. “He’s been all right so far.”

“So far.”

“Little faith in your brother?”

He turns to Greg and raises his eyebrows. “You have more?”

“Well…” Greg glances at the ambulance where John is finally standing up and batting away an earnest paramedic. “They seem to be helping each other.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Holmes nods and glances down at his finger nails. “I trust he aided you well on this case?”

Greg laughs once. “As well as he always does, leaving us behind a few times but we do find him again. You know how he is.”

Mr. Holmes smiles. “Oh yes.” He glances Greg up and down once. Greg swallows and feels oddly like it’s Sherlock looking at him now. “You do look as though you could use some sleep, Detective Inspector.”

Greg stands up straighter and touches his forehead again automatically. “Well…” He drops his hand and holds up his coffee just a touch higher. “I have assistance.”

“Still.” Mr. Holmes tilts his head and his eyes circle around Greg’s face. “Mustn’t let the criminal classes of London cause you to fall into disrepair due to denying yourself the basics.”

“Like sleep?”

“I imagine food is important as well.”

Greg laughs and Mr. Holmes smiles back at him.

“And I would recommend the kind with nutrients, something about ‘an apple a day’ I believe.”

Greg chuckles again and nods. “All right, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do.” Mr. Holmes smiles more. “And if time permits you might consider dry cleaning.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “What?”

Mr. Holmes points at Greg’s collar with his non-umbrella hand. Greg looks down and sees some discoloration on the dark gray edge. He cannot quite tell what it is but it certainly isn’t a 'years old' stain as of yet. He looks up again and Mr. Holmes raises both eyebrows.

“I imagine if you should have any unfortunate press interactions you’ll want to look your best.”

Greg smiles. “Not tonight I think.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Holmes smirks and tilts his head. “Fortunately it is only coffee.”

“You can tell that?”

“Sherlock is not the only Holmes with observational skills.”

“But the only ‘Consulting Detective.’”

Mr. Holmes smiles slowly. “Wouldn’t do to burden you with such a weight as two.”

Greg chuckles again and nods. “Well, thank you for the consideration.”

Mr. Holmes nods back. “You are welcome.”

They stand quietly for a moment. Greg takes another sip of his coffee as Mr. Holmes watches him, twirling his umbrella around in his palm once, tip on the pavement. Greg glances at his PCs still collecting the scant witness statements then looks back to Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes purses his lips slightly then his eyes shift to the side toward Sherlock who is now standing beside John, face animated and hands pointing toward the body being loaded into the ambulance.

“Well.” Mr. Holmes glances at the ground then up again. “I leave you to your crime scene.”

“Wait,” Greg says before Mr. Holmes turns away. “You didn’t say what interest it was you had in this case.” Greg waves a hand behind him. “Beyond Sherlock that is?”

Mr. Holmes nods. “No, I did not.” Then he opens the back door of his black car and steps inside, shutting it behind him.

Several hours later, after releasing the witnesses, pulling information out of Sherlock, apologizing to John as John apologized to him, and letting the crime scene technicians do their work, Greg walks back into his office at a little after nine PM. He hangs up his coat as he closes his door, pulling out his mobile from the one pocket. Greg clicks the phone to life then clicks the one contact on his home page. 

It takes four rings before she answers. “What?”

Greg closes his eyes once then opens them again. “Late one?”

She sighs. “About to drive to the house now, why?”

“I was… you said you’d check in.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you…” He sighs. “We said we’d call once a week.”

“All right, we’re calling then.”

“You said –“

“Greg, what is it? We’re on the phone now, what do you want?”

“Anne, look I know space is the point but we can’t just stop talking all together, that’s why we said once a week. With both our schedules we have to pencil it in, isn’t that what you said?”

“I did say that.”

“Well?”

She sighs and he can hear her rummaging in her handbag. “Look, Greg, we’re separated. That means something wasn’t going right. Scheduling time to talk each week isn’t going to shine it all up again.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know you didn’t but maybe some weeks I just don’t want to talk to you. I just… shit.” Greg bites his teeth down together and paces two steps across his office. He breathes slowly and paces back again. Anne sighs. “I’m sorry, that’s… look, it was a long day, it’s getting late, just... you leave the yard and get some sleep.”

“Why is everyone telling me that today?”

She scoffs. “Is that a real question?”

“Anne, I thought… I thought we could do dinner this week, talk about –“

“Not now, Greg.”

Greg huffs. “Space, more of that?”

For a moment he only hears faint background noise, an echo of shoes in a parking garage. “Yes." She says quietly. "Good night.” Then she hangs up.

Greg stares at his inner window blinds then drops his hand. He steps backward once and puts the mobile on his desk behind him. He sighs and crosses his arms. Through the blinds he sees PC Clipton and PC Bradford at their computers probably getting the forms from the crime scene into the system. Greg turns and walks around his desk, sitting down in his chair. Then he notices the light blue envelope in the middle of his desk, writing on the front.

**To D.I. Gregory Lestrade**

Greg sits up straight and picks up the envelope, more like a card than any sort of official document and with no post mark. Greg turns it over and sees the flap merely tucked into the back. He flips it up then pulls out the light blue card, a large 'MH' embossed horizontally on the front. He opens it and reads the short line:

_It was a pleasure speaking to you this evening, Detective Inspector. We should do it again._

_–M. Holmes_

Greg turns the card over, closes it, picks up the envelope and flips it around then opens the card again. That’s it, nothing else, just the one line. Greg reads it again then a third time before he places it back down on his desk on top of the envelope.

“Huh…” Greg crosses his arms and stares at the card. He cannot decide if this is good or very bad.

\----------

Greg parks his car at the curb, no sign of his wife's Toyota. He gets out of the car then pulls out two flat cardboard boxes from the back seat. He walks up to his town house, notices a piece of paper in the grass but leaves it. He unlocks the front door and closes it behind him. Peering around the front hall, he leaves one box at the foot of the stairs then heads up with the other in hand. In the bedroom, he opens the wardrobe and sees his clothes all pushed up tight to one side.

"Really?" Greg sighs and shakes his head.

He pulls down some shirts and trousers; he's been re-wearing the same three pairs of trousers for a few weeks now. He throws them onto the bed and notices Anne has put those throw pillows he hates back on the bed. He picks up one flat box and starts to fold it into shape, staring at the blue and white pillows.

"Fucking... useless pillows."

He drops the complete box onto the floor, folds up the trousers and puts them in. He follows that with the shirts then walks over to the dresser. Anne's one opal necklace hangs out of the open jewelry box. Greg touches the silver chain but pulls his hand back almost immediately. He sighs and opens the second drawer. Luckily his socks and pants are still inside. He scoops out about half of them and throws them behind him into the box. A pair of socks miss and land on the cushioned chair under the window.

Greg stares. He rubs his eyes with both hands then walks over and retrieves the socks. He twists them back and forth in his hands, staring at the curtains. He can indistinctly see the street beyond through the sheer fabric. Greg turns away and tosses the socks into the box. He crouches down and closes the box, flaps overlapping. He picks up the finished box and carries it downstairs. He puts it down at the bottom of the steps then hears a key turn in the lock. He stands up straight as Anne walks in the door. She gives a sudden start and gasps .

"Jesus, Greg." She sighs heavily and hangs up her handbag on the hat stand beside the door.

"Sorry." He points at the box. "Just needed some clothes."

She smiles and glances down at his trousers. "I see that."

"Funny."

She twirls her keys around in her hand once and clears her throat. Greg puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor.

"Work all right?" He asks, looking up at her again.

She nods. "Yes, fine, same."

He chuckles. "Yeah."

"Plenty of criminals for you still?"

Greg pulls a hand out of his pocket and rubs it down his shirt. "Never stops really."

"Oh yes," Anne smiles, "as with the sick."

"I, uh," Greg points into the living room, "some CDs as well."

Anne waves a hand at the living room then walks past him down the hall toward the kitchen. Greg watches her go until she turns to the right where he can no longer see her. He picks up the other flat box and walks into the living room. He picks a few U2 albums, Abbey Road and Let it Be, The Police, some Dire Straits and a David Bowie album that he doesn't always admit to. He folds the box together, puts the CDs in, then stands up and walks back into the kitchen.

Greg leans in the doorway and watches Anne rummaging in the freezer for a moment. "Hey," he says finally and she turns around. "Thought I would take the blue plates. I don't have any at the moment."

"Still? What have you been eating on?"

"Take away."

She scoffs incredulously. "Have them then."

Greg crosses the kitchen over to her and opens the cabinet beside the fridge. He pulls down four blue plates, chips on all of them, from the top shelf. He holds them against his chest and turns to Anne beside him. 

She glances at the plates then down the hall. “Did you take any DVDs?”

“I would not dare touch your Hugh Grant.”

She nods and closes the door to the refrigerator, soy milk in her hand. Greg shifts the plates slightly so they make soft clacking noises. They stare at each other for a moment until Anne looks away.

"Need any more crockery?" 

Greg looks at the side of her head, some brown hair tucked behind her ear. "No."

Greg turns around and walks back into the living room, fitting the plates in with the CDs. He closes the box, picks it up then moves back into the hall and puts it on top of the clothing box. He stands and watches the doorway to the kitchen. He hears Anne doing something, getting out food from the refrigerator maybe, but he cannot see her.

"I'll be off then," he says.

"All right!" She calls back.

Greg picks up the boxes, waits a few seconds then turns and opens the front door again.

\----------

Greg listens to the radio as the last reports from the officers three streets down comes in. It turns out that PC Gupta tackled the suspect in the street, broke her nose in the process but got the man in handcuffs before any of the other officers could catch up. Now they all owe her a drink at the pub next copper night.

“Bring him back,” Greg says into the radio, “and watch that nose.”

“His or mine?” She quips.

“Both.”

“Yes, sir.” He hears her chuckle just before the radio cuts off.

Greg drops the radio and waves his hand at the two officers on the corner. He whistles and they finally turn. “Pack it in!”

Greg leans down back into the car and puts the radio back. When he stands up again he sees Mycroft Holmes standing beside a black car on the other side of the street. Greg watches Mr. Holmes for a moment but when he does not come over, Greg steps forward.

“Something wrong?” He asks.

“You appear to have it all in hand.”

Greg glances down the street where his PCs are returning with the suspect. He turns back to Mr. Holmes. “Not really your sort of high level crime, I’d say, so…” He raises his eyebrows. “Why are you here?”

“For you, Detective Inspector.”

“Me?”

“Well, when last we saw each other you were appearing somewhat worse for the wear. I felt the need to check on you.”

Greg opens his mouth then closes it again. He blows out the breath then shrugs. “Uh, all right. Well?”

Mr. Holmes smiles. “You appear to have eaten at least.”

“Not a ringing endorsement.”

Mr. Holmes tilts his head and purses his lips. “It is in your hands.”

Greg slides his hands into his pockets and sighs. “That it?”

“What more would you wish?”

“I don’t know, something about Sherlock probably?”

Mr. Holmes tilts his head down and gives Greg a ‘really now?’ type of look. “Not everything is about my brother.”

“And thank God for that.” Greg laughs once and Mr. Holmes just smiles back. Greg clears his throat. “So, that’s really all? It seems a bit…” He glances at Mr. Holmes’ sleek black car then back to the man himself. “Excessive?”

Mr. Holmes breathes in slowly and nods. “As you say, Detective Inspector.” He backs up one step toward the back car door. He looks Greg up and down slowly so that Greg has to breathe in to stop himself from shivering. Then Mr. Holmes opens the car door. “I would suggest you remember from now on to look after yourself.”

Greg opens his mouth to retort but Mr. Holmes is already back in the car, door closed and driving away.

\----------

One memo, three press information requests, two closed cases for review, and a promotion approval meeting agenda sit on Greg’s desk. The memo says something about rotating hours and need to be ‘on call’ during holidays. Greg folds it in half, opens the bottom left drawer of his desk, and drops it in with the other memos that he will probably need to pull out again at least once to prove to the superintendent that he did indeed receive it. He picks up one press release then remembers he still needs to turn on his laptop for the day.

Greg rubs his forehead. “Shit.”

Greg writes two of the press releases, keeping the facts simple after he has to review ten pages for each case in the computer system, then sicks Donovan on the third because that new reporter at the Daily Mail needs to shove it. 

Before he can open the first case for review his desk phone rings and the superintendent gnaws his ear off about the robbery statistics from last month.

“When the press hears about these numbers –“

“Statistics can be read a number of ways, sir.”

“D.I. Lestrade, numbers do not lie and I expect this number to be higher.”

Instead of the obvious sarcastic response, Greg considers just hanging up.

After thirty-six long minutes, Greg finally, joyfully hangs up, drops his pen, and pulls up John’s blog. Hopefully he will be lucky and John will have written up a new case. In a stroke of mercy, John has a new entry posted.

_...Then, as he does, Sherlock asked our witness if her weekly sexual exploits with the victim were satisfying enough to give her cause to tell us the truth this time. So she slapped him; I've stopped keeping count of the times this happens._

Greg laughs out loud and reads on; he really needs to ask John out for a pint to get more details on some of these. He bookmarks the entry then decides he should bite the bullet and actually go through his e-mail. A quarter of the e-mail should be information requests which hopefully he can pass off on to some rookies to chase down. He opens his e-mail and see one hundred and twenty-three unread messages.

Greg groans. “God…”

When Greg finally comes around to opening the first closed case, Donovan taps on his door and pokes her head in. He raises an eyebrow and she holds up a hand with case files clasped in it.

He stares at her. “Closed?”

“Two of them are.”

“And the other… others?”

“One we want to declare cold.”

“Want to?”

“Dislike to.”

“All right.” Greg holds out his hand. “I’ll do that one first.”

Donovan steps in and hands him the files. He takes them and she claps her hands together once, pointing at him. “Good luck.”

“Ha.” He waves his hand at her until she back steps out of his office.

Greg drops the files onto the top of the stack and stares at them for a few seconds. He then glances over at his mobile. He watches it, waits to see the blinking light indicating he has a message or a text. No such luck. He sits up straight, picks up his pen and opens the top case file.

When Greg looks up again and sees the clock on the wall it reads eleven PM. Greg blinks, checks his watch then sighs. He closes the finished case and puts it on the ‘done’ pile on the left side of his desk. He puts his pen down then notices a man in a suit standing in his door. 

“Yes?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Greg frowns. “As the name plate says.”

The man pulls what appear to be two coffees from behind his back and walks into the office. He puts the travel cups down on Greg’s desk, avoiding any papers, then holds out a white card envelope. Greg reaches out and takes it automatically. The man in the suit nods then turns and walks out of Greg’s office. Greg’s eyes tick to the card then to the two coffees, the pleasant smell starting to spread through his office. Greg puts down the card and picks up one of the coffees. The container is a sleek plastic, not the kind you’d save and use over yet not something just from Starbucks. There is no brand label or any writing on either cup. Greg takes the top off one and see dark brown liquid, not quite black inside. He takes a small sip, not too hot and exactly how he usually takes it.

“Oi!” Greg calls. He stands up and walks to his office door. He looks out into the open space, empty desks and a couple lamps left on. The courier, or whomever he was, is nowhere in sight.

He turns back into his office and sits down again. He picks up the card, nothing written on the front. Greg pulls the white card out of the envelope. Then he recognizes the ‘MH’ embossed on the front of the card.

“No…” he whispers and frowns.

Greg opens the card and reads the inside.

_Do go to sleep at some point, Detective Inspector._

_–M. Holmes_

He puts the card down again, edges on the desk so it sits propped up with the ‘MH’ staring at him. Greg sits up and picks up one of the cups. He takes another long drink then breathes slowly through his nose. It might be the best coffee he’s ever had.

\----------

“We don’t have anything fresh this morning, apart from a few overnights downstairs. Avery, check with booking on those.” Greg looks up from his papers and scans the room. Then he points, “Brooks, I want you on the background checks for Donovan today, all right?”

She nods and smiles though Greg can tell she’d rather stab a pen in her eye.

“Donovan,” He turns to her, “I think you still have some witnesses to interview?”

She nods. “Yes, Martin and Ted are coming with me to cover the buildings on both sides.”

Banks makes a quiet ‘whoop’ noise and a low chuckle spreads around the room. Greg smiles and flips a page. “All right, the museum murder?”

Bell raises her hand. “The bodies are down in the morgue, still waiting on more.”

“Right, evidence.”

Bell points to the right but Brooks shakes her head. “I’m off it now.” Bell scoffs and flings a hand up. Brooks picks up the papers in front of her. “I sent the slug from the wall down and Peters is going through purse contents right now.”

“What about the hair we found?” Bell asks, tapping her pen on the knuckles of her other hand.

Brooks shakes her head and puts the papers back down. “No match in the system. The rest is out of my hands now, still with the crime scene guys.”

The women look back at Greg. Greg nods and sighs. “All right, fine, one of you make sure that Peters and the SOCO get back to me.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus.

Greg turns and points at the white board behind him. “The rest of you should have assignments, turn some ‘unsolved’ to ‘solved,’ right?” Everyone nods and a few of the PC’s in the back stand up straighter. “Anything else?”

Anderson raises a hand. “The coffee machine?”

Donovan snorts and few others murmur. Greg shakes his head and waves his stack of papers. “When I know, you’ll know. For now, kick it if you want.”

Anderson grumbles but just crosses his arms.

“Dismissed,” Greg says and marches away as everyone rises and spreads out onto their various jobs, most of which will be woeful paperwork.

Greg flips the papers in his hand in an attempt to organize them as he walks to his office. He opens his door and shuts it behind him, papers in order and clipped together again. He steps over to his desk then sees a white box with a violet envelope on top sitting just to the right of a stack of papers in the middle of his desk. Greg blinks slowly then steps around his desk and puts the morning agenda notes down. He picks up the envelope and pulls out the matching violet card, MH embossed again.

_Better than your usual doughnut, kick that stereotype._

_–M. Holmes_

Greg’s eyes shift to focus on the box. He drops the card then pulls the top off the box. Inside is an assortment of a dozen, maybe a couple less, of pastries. He sees a cheese Danish, some sort of chocolate croissant, something that has a caramel glaze to it and another with strawberries on top. Greg picks up an innocent looking piece of pound cake and sniffs it. He puts it back in the box then picks up the card again.

“Kick that stereotype…” He huffs quietly and closes the card.

Sitting back down, he stares at the open box like it might sprout legs and walk toward him across the desk. Greg laughs once despite himself at the image. He turns his chair left then right, still smiling. Finally, he sits up, picks the cheese Danish from the box and takes a bite.

\----------

The next week when Greg comes back from a lunch press conference where the reporters harped too much on the victim’s past sexual partners, he finds a small box on his desk. For a moment Greg thinks it is just something sent up from evidence then he sees the white card sitting propped up in front of the box.

“Ah…” He picks up the envelope, pulls out the card and sees the MH on the front again. “Really? What…”

He drops the card without opening it and goes straight for the box. He has to pull off a gold, seal-like sticker from the front before he can lift the lid. Inside are four rows of circular tea bags. Written on the lid at the top of each row are types: Lady Grey, Darjeeling, Vanilla Chai, and English Breakfast.

Greg closes the box and picks up the card.

_If you should tire of your coffee at work._

_–M. Holmes_

\----------

Five days after the box of tea, Greg arrives in the morning to find another box on his desk. Donovan, Peters, and Bell are standing by his door within five minutes of him hanging up his jacket and sitting down.

“Can I help you?” He asks, rose colored card in hand still unopened.

“We’re fine, sir,” Donovan answers.

He stares at them a moment longer but not one of them moves. Peters at least has the sense to look slightly nervous as he shifts from foot to foot half hidden behind Donovan and Bell.

“Well?” Bell insists. “Open it then. You had a box with a card the other week too.”

“And a few days ago,” Donovan adds.

Bell leans forward. “Did we miss your birthday?”

“No, it’s in May,” Peters says. Donovan and Bell both look over their shoulders at him. Peter clears his throat and pushes some blond hair from his eyes. “What?”

“Get out.”

Bell groans and Peters takes a large step back. Donovan only crosses her arms. “Sir?”

Greg waves the card at them. “Come on, out.”

Donovan sighs, turns around and shoos the other two out. She flashes a disappointed look over her shoulder then shuts the door behind her. Greg breathes out and opens the card. It says, 

_Stick to good coffee, Detective Inspector._

_–M. Holmes_

Greg puts the card down and opens the box. Inside on a bed of rose tissue paper is a French press.

\----------

When Greg comes into the office the week after, he finds a black box on his desk with a white note card on top.

"Oh... no. No."

He picks up his phone and switches on his computer to find a number because this is enough.

After an hour of combing through their database and calling two dead end numbers Greg is nowhere. He rocks his chair from side to side, calls their PR office just in case they have something on file, then smashes the phone receiver down after another twenty minutes of frustration. He considers for one second calling Sherlock to ask him for his brother's phone number but then decides he would rather spend the night in jail with 'copper' tattooed on his forehead. 

It finally ends up being John who is his savior when the pair of them come in, John forcing Sherlock to return cold case files he stole. John drops one box on Greg’s desk and, when he calls to Sherlock to just give in and ‘give the damn files back,’ Greg picks the right pocket to steal John's mobile without John noticing. He should probably look down on pickpocketing but for now he will consider it payback to Sherlock for all the times Greg knows it was him.

After returning the cold cases to their homes and shoving the duo out, mobile surreptitiously returned, Greg calls the number. Two rings later the line connects with a clipped, "Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes?"

There is a pause, longer than the normal stretch of phone conversation, then Mr. Holmes replies, "Detective Inspector, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I want to ask you..."

"Yes?"

Greg clears his throat and decides there is no point in not being direct. "Why do you keep sending me these things?"

"Well, I would term them as gifts myself."

"All right, gifts."

"Yes."

Greg sighs. "Why do you keep sending them?"

"Are they not to your liking?"

"No, I mean," Greg huffs. "That's not the point. They're all... they're thoughtful, but why are you sending them?"

Mr. Holmes chuckles quietly. "Did you call me just to ask a question you already know the answer to?"

"I don't know the answer."

“Yes, you do. I believe I have made my interest in you clear, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

“You have?”

“I have.”

"But you... you barely know me."

"Perhaps I wish to know more."

“I…” Greg clears his throat again and scratches his free hand quickly through his hair. “Mr. Holmes, I am not –”

“Detective Inspector,” Mr. Holmes interrupts smoothly like a man who does it all the time, “with such a conversation like this I believe we can dispense with some formality; call me Mycroft.”

Greg sighs. “This really isn’t –”

“Please.”

Greg stares across his office at the window then looks down at his desk. He taps his fingertips slowly on a manila folder. Greg clears his throat and relaxes his hand flat on the folder. “Mycroft.”

He hears Mycroft make a small ‘hmm’ noise then before Greg can say anything else the line clicks off.

When Greg opens the box he finds a bottle of red wine inside. The note says:

_You should relax now and then. Do feel free to call sometime._

_–M. Holmes_

Under Mycroft's signature is his phone number.

\----------

"Anne?"

Anne stands in the hallway in front of the door to Greg's flat. He peeks at his watch, sees it is after eight, then glances back. Beside Anne are three boxes on a dolly.

"I brought some more of your things."

Greg extends his hand so the door knocks into the wall. "I have all I need right now."

"There were still a lot of your things at the house."

Greg scoffs. "I wasn't going to take all of them." He waves at the boxes. "What is this?"

"Your things."

"What, all of them?"

She shrugs. "Mostly."

Greg blinks. "Are you kidding me?"

"Can I come in?"

"So you can drop off my things? What things exactly?"

Anne grabs the handle of the dolly, tilts it onto the wheels, then shoves herself past Greg into the hall of his flat. Greg knocks into the doorknob as she passes and stares at his keys hanging on a hook on the wall for a minute. Then he breathes in slowly and steps away from the door, shutting it before walking down the hall. Anne has two of the boxes off the dolly at the intersection of the kitchen and the living room. She pushes the last one off then pulls the dolly free.

"Isn't the dolly mine too?"

Anne rolls her eyes. "Don't be petty."

He points at his chest. "I'm being petty?"

"It's better this way, your things in one place and mine in another. We don't have to be in each other's way or surprise each other."

"You mean surprise you, because you don't want me coming by the house." Anne sighs and puts a hand in her long hair. Greg steps around so he's in her eye line. "Anne, separated does not mean forever, right? Come on, we said we were going to keep talking, that this was to figure out what..." He sighs. "Aren't we even going to try?"

"I am trying." She waves a hand at the boxes. "I just... I just need the space to be real, okay?"

"Real?" Greg groans and stalks across the living room, just one couch, bookshelf and a TV, nothing up on the walls. He stops at the window, shakes his head, and turns around again. "You're talking like you'd rather I was gone all together!"

"I didn't say that!" Anne insists. She breathes in and puts her hands on her hips. "I just... I just need you here and me there, okay? We both spend enough time at work anyway, right?"

"Wasn't that part of the problem?"

"You thought so, always wanted me home more but that didn't apply to you!" Anne bites out suddenly.

"That's not fair!"

Anne flings up her hands and shakes two fingers. "Oh, no, it wasn't."

"Fine! Fine, I was wrong." Greg throws up his hands too. "I said it, better?"

"You know that's not it."

"Maybe if you actually would talk to -"

"Oh yes, always me, never Greg! Always throwing the whole thing back on me as if you were so present and aware; as though you weren't the copper through and through."

Greg frowns. "Because you weren't the career woman?"

She scoffs loudly and smacks the wall. "Oh, the thorn in your side."

“Yes, yes, because you were always so proactive. When you had the free time, what did you do? Go out and fiddle in your garden, plant vegetables, pull weeds.”

“I can like what I –“

“Yes, what you like, all by yourself. Who’s the one unavailable?” Greg points at her and raises his eyebrows.

“Did I say the word ‘unavailable’? What are you a romance film?” She flips her hair and steps forward. “We did plenty together. We weren’t flatmates!”

Greg shrugs. “What, fishing?”

“You like fishing!”

“So did you!”

“Christ.” Anne flips her hair again and scratches a hand over her scalp. “Are we yelling about things we like now? When is the last time we really went fishing?”

“Exactly!” Greg puts his hands on his hips.

“Greg!”

“You say you need me here and you there but how is that a solution?” 

“Because maybe I just don’t want to see you now, all right? I need it to be about me.”

"Oh? About you?” Greg growls and puts a hand over his eyes.“God, we were bloody lucky not to have children."

When Greg drops his hand again, Anne is walking out with the dolly pulled behind her. He hears her march down the hall and open the door. 

"Don't I know it!" She shouts back and the door slams loudly behind her.

Greg stares at the boxes on the wood floor. He breathes in and out slowly a few times before turning away and dropping down onto his couch. Greg knocks his head back against the edge of the couch and scrubs one hand over his face.

"Shit..." He shakes his head. “Stupid.”

Greg pulls his mobile out of this pocket. He clicks the screen on and pulls up his contacts. His thumb hits 'M' but he clicks the screen off again almost immediately and puts it back in his trouser pocket.

\----------

Though the body is under a plastic tent and Bell ran to find him an umbrella, the walk from the car to the scene leaves Greg completely soaked from the rain so severe it actually obstructs his vision as he walks. It is calls like these where he wishes he were still a PC and would already have his hat on to at least save his face somewhat. Sherlock and John are on the scene now, the rest of Greg’s force off at the perimeter getting the caution tape to stay up as best they can. John looks a bit like someone threw him straight in the Thames and Sherlock’s hair has gone straight against his temples.

“Sherlock, don’t –” John starts as Sherlock practically sticks his nose right into the victim’s hair.

“God…” Greg mutters.

“Enough with the sniffing!” John snaps.

“Now who’s contaminating evidence?” Greg mutters.

Sherlock hops up to standing again and give them both separate glares. Then he points at Greg. “Was the body moved?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Would I have called you if I hadn’t noticed that this isn’t the murder site?”

“Probably.”

Greg sighs again. “No, we haven’t moved it when it comes to this spot.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock smiles. “Well someone else did then.”

“Yes, I said this wasn’t the murder –“

“Not that.”

“You mean someone moved the body again once it was here?” John supplies.

Sherlock snaps his fingers at John and smiles. Greg clicks his teeth and wonders which of his detectives needs a talking to this time for missing whatever it is Sherlock is about to expound upon.

“Well then?” Greg asks and shakes his hands out as some water starts to seep under his cuffs.

“Obvious presentation,” Sherlock begins, pointing at the arms of the body on the ground, “his arms look haphazard, as though he just fell or was dropped but…” Sherlock crouches low. “This angle is wrong, it is close, yes, but still not the way a body would actually fall.”

Greg tilts his head, looking at the arms but knows they’ll photograph it soon. “And?”

“Roses.”

“Roses?” Greg and John says together.

Sherlock grins. “The hair, smells of roses. Not something a man would usually spray himself with.”

“Or for shampoo,” John says.

“Same marks around the wrists as your other body, Lestrade.”

Greg nods. “And the throat.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock grins in that manic way that reminds Greg of the serial suicides and, god please, let this not be a serial killer. Sherlock claps his hands. “The marks, this man was kept somewhere for a few days before he ended up here. His nails, the lips, the dust in the hair, oh this could be interesting.” Sherlock’s head whips around to Greg. “Connection between them?”

“I… we just got….”

Sherlock waves a hand at Greg and huffs. “John, we are off.”

“Where?”

Sherlock only chuckles and grabs the collar of John’s coat pulling him out into the rain.

“Oi!” Greg calls but Sherlock does not heed him. Greg sighs and rubs his forehead. He knows there is at least one line there which is due just to Sherlock Holmes.

“Sir?”

Greg turns and sees Donovan behind him. Her eyes tick to where Sherlock and John used to be then she looks at him again. She raises her eyebrows.

Greg nods. “Yeah, photographs and evidence then let’s get this poor bugger out of the rain.”

“More so.” Donovan nods. “On it.”

As Donovan turns away, Bell comes running up. She stops in front of him with water running off her hat and into her curly hair sticking against the side of her face.

“Sergeant?”

“I, uh…” She takes a deep breath in. “No umbrella.” He stares at her. She clenches her teeth and frowns. “Sorry…”

“How can we not have a bloody umbrella?”

“Uh, we do but…” She looks behind her then back to him. “They are over witnesses right now.”

Greg sighs. “Fine.”

“I could –“

“No, it’s fine. I am going back.” Greg turns and shouts, “Donovan!” She spins in place and, though she is under the tent, water splashes off her. “You’re in charge.”

“You mean you’re…”

Greg grins at her. She purses her lips then sighs and nods. He takes back what he thought about being a PC again.

After talking to two brave reporters stalking the crime scene line getting just as drenched, he finally makes it back to New Scotland Yard. Greg steals a chair from the conference room and drags it to his office to drape his soaked coat on. He has a feeling it is not going to be dry by the time he leaves for his flat tonight. Underneath, his suit jacket and shirt are also a bit damp, not to mention his trousers. 

Greg sighs and shakes his hair once, far enough away from his desk so none of the case files become subject to such abuse. Then Greg sees the large, long gray box propped up in his chair with a blue envelop stuck to the front.

“Oh god…”

Greg blows out a slow breath of air, very much does not smile, then walks over to his desk. He shifts the chair around by the arm and pulls the card off the front. He opens the envelope and then the card. This time it reads:

_Dry off._

_–M. Holmes_

Greg raises his eyebrows. “You’re kidding…”

Greg looks over the edge of the card at the box. He puts the card and envelope down on his desk and stares at the box. He glances at his office door, no one peeking in this time, then back to the box. He scratches the back of his neck and sighs.

“All right then.”

He picks up the box and lays it on top of the arms of his chair. He eases the box top off – it feels heavier than a box top should which means it’s expensive – then lays it on the floor. Inside the tissue paper matches the blue card perfectly. He unfolds the two flaps of tissue paper and sees a coat. The coat is dark gray, three buttons, with black leather on the top collar. He touches two fingers to the leather then squeezes the corner. He pulls his hand away, steps back once then steps forward again and pulls the coat from the box. He holds it up, long enough to hit his knees, and stares. He does not need to put it on to know that it will fit him perfectly.

He lowers his hands so the edge of the coat touches the box again. He huffs. “Damn.”

Greg smiles.

\----------

It is a Tuesday at one in the afternoon when Mycroft Holmes himself, not a note or box or courier, walks through Greg’s office door.

“I, uh…” Greg almost falls off his chair in surprise then carefully puts his pen down. “Mr. Holmes.” He raises his eyebrows at Greg. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiles. “Detective Inspector.” He closes the office door, leans his umbrella against the wall beside it then walks over and takes a chair. 

Greg leans back in his chair and clears his throat. Mycroft smiles at him, glancing around the office quickly before looking at Greg again. 

Greg threads his fingers together and keeps his breathing as even as possible. “To what do I owe a personal visit?”

“My brother.”

Greg groans.

Mycroft smiles in a thin line and nods. “Yes, a usual reaction. I wanted to bring to your attention he may soon be…” Mycroft clears his throat. “He may soon inquire about an open case of yours.”

“Which?”

“A double homicide in the West End.” Greg’s eyes scan his desk for an appropriate case file but Mycroft continues before he locks in on the one that would fit. “The point is that there are factors neither of you will be aware of so it would be best to, well, remove it from his radar, so to speak.”

“Why?”

Mycroft’s lip twitches and he crosses his legs. “It may intersect with some affairs of my own.”

“Affairs?”

“Matters of state.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “A double homicide in the West End connects to matters of state?”

Mycroft sighs. “Detective Inspector, while I do wish I could share the intricacies with you, there are areas above your pay grade.”

Greg laughs once. “Oh don’t I know.”

Mycroft smiles, eyes shifting up and down Greg once before he speaks again. “Sherlock, however, does not often care to acknowledge this.” Mycroft shakes his head and straightens his tie. “It would be better if he avoided it all together.”

“So, what you’re asking me is to distract Sherlock with a different case?”

“He can be distractible with the right motivations, Detective Inspector.”

“Not always.”

“It is merely a request that I can assure you is in both our interests.”

“Our?”

“Exactly, Detective Inspector.”

“Look.” Greg sits up straight, puts one hand on his desk, and hooks his other elbow on the back on his chair. “You don’t have to…” He laughs once. “You asked me to call you Mycroft and here you are still ‘Detective Inspectoring’ me.”

“And?”

“Well…” He pulls his arm off the back of the chair and puts his hand beside his other on the desk. “You should just call me Greg.”

Mycroft folds his hands together over his knee and smiles. “Greg then.”

Greg nods. “All right.”

Mycroft uncrosses his legs and stands up. Greg pulls his hands off the desk and feels the instinct to stand up as when one’s superior does. Mycroft crosses to the door and picks up his umbrella.

“I shall leave you to your work and good luck with Sherlock.” Mycroft turns the door knob. “I hope you have more success in this than other times.”

Greg chuckles. “All right.”

Mycroft opens the door. “Good day.”

“Mycroft,” Greg says suddenly. Mycroft stops and looks at Greg again. “Thank you.”

Mycroft nods. “Of course.”

“No, I…” Greg lays his hand on his desk then pulls it away again and grips the arm of his chair. “I meant for the coat.” He clears his throat. “You probably wouldn’t take it back even if I told you it was too much, would you?”

“No, I would not.”

Greg sighs with a smile. “Well, thank you very much then.”

Mycroft lets go of the door and this time when he smiles it is not just proper and polite. “You are quite welcome.” He pauses and seems to consider. "I am sure I will see you again soon, Greg."


	2. Earnestly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If it's not your wife then who is it?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."_

Greg walks along the front of the grocery store passing by aisle after aisle. He does not quite understand sometimes how they organize these places any more. Why in the world does there need to be an aisle dedicated just to soda and water? Greg skips that aisle. He has been getting take away too much lately and, though he's not all that vain, he doesn't want to be the fat copper behind the desk. He knows how to cook so he should do it now and then. The stove in his kitchen needs some attention. Maybe he should get some chicken, do a stir fry?

Greg's mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket, making him almost drop his basket. "Shit." Greg fumbles, finds the right pocket, and taps answer just in time. "Yeah?"

"Hello to you too."

"David, hi." Greg shifts the phone to his other hand. "How are you?"

"Less brusque when I answer the phone."

"True, hit fifty yet?"

"Oh ho ho." David makes a tsking noise. "You jest, brother, but you are not so far yourself."

Greg laughs without humor. "It's clear on the horizon, don't worry. How's Jane?"

"Fine, as usual. She's caning her students now. Need to start that discipline in primary, you know."

"Branch she broke off a tree outside, I bet."

"Of course, but seriously, she’s -" David suddenly groans in pain and shouts faintly, obviously leaning away from the phone. "What did I say? Isn't three times enough!" He sighs loudly. "Sorry, hi."

"This is what happens when you have three of them, right?"

David grumbles and sighs again. "You're lucky you have none."

Greg clears his throat and turns down another aisle, knocking a can of beans into his basket. He looks down at it as soon as it lands and has to close his eyes at the 'bachelor' irony.

"Hey, uh... how's Anne and all that going?"

"Ha..." Greg picks up the can of beans from his basket and puts it back on the shelf. "She brought three boxes of my things to my flat."

"Shit."

"Yes."

David knocks something in the background, probably smacking his hand on the counter like he does when making a point because he thinks he is a judge or something. "It just means she cares."

'"She - what?"

"She came to your flat in person to bring your things. Doesn't that mean she cares or something?"

Greg looks down the aisle, one woman with a trolley and way too much cat food. "Maybe. I don't know. I have Anne starting fights about nothing on the one side and then Mycroft with his -" Greg bites his lip and shakes his head.

"The who, with his what?"

"It's nothing. Look, I should -"

"Who is Mycroft? Is that a name?"

Greg rubs his forehead with his mobile hand then brings it back to his ear. "Yeah, it is."

David is silent but Greg does not fill in the hole. He considers pasta sauce until David says, "So Mycroft?"

"He's been sending me presents."

"Sending you presents?"

“Yeah, to the office.” Greg holds the mobile between his ear and shoulder then picks two jars of sauce, putting them in his basket.

“Like what? Chocolates?”

"Coffee, wine... uh, a coat."

"A coat!"

"It was raining!" David starts to laugh. Greg sighs and walks down the aisle. "All right, all right, stop laughing.”

“A coat.” David snorts. “Are you serious?” David stops laughing and Greg hears something clink in the background. “He does know you’re still married, right?”

“I think he knows pretty much everything. He works for the government.”

“Like parliament?”

Greg stands at the end of the aisle then turns right. “More like ‘hush hush don’t ask’ government.”

“Scary.”

“His brother is worse.”

“Two men are sending you presents? My God, Greg, when did the Met become the place to be?”

“You know you’re not as funny as you think,” Greg says as he turns down another aisle.

“Yes, I am.”

Greg sighs. “If you insist and, no, two men are not sending me presents. His brother is Sherlock.”

“The annoying consulting genius guy Sherlock?”

“That’s the one.”

“You run with a strange crowd, Greg.”

Greg stops walking and glares at the air. “Thank you.”

“All right, let’s –” David makes another yelping noise then shouts something indistinguishable into the background. “And now that I am still alive after yet another toy attack,” he sighs, “Let’s recap. This man, Mycroft, right?”

“Yes.”

“Has sent you coffee, wine, and a coat.” David chuckles once quietly. “Possibly more. He has sent you presents, gifts, tokens.”

“Got it, David.”

“So what you’re telling me is that he’s wooing you?”

“No! I mean, well… “

“Oh, he definitely is.”

“You’re daft.”

“Sounds more like you’re in denial.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Go on then, won’t change the fact that you are being pursued by a shady government –” Greg hangs up.

Greg looks up at the shelf in front of him, rice pilaf in a box staring back. He frowns, picks one box up with his mobile hand, and puts it in his basket. 

Greg taps his mobile on the edge of the shelf and sighs. "Fucking ridiculous..." then he slips it back into his coat pocket.

Reaching the end of the aisle, Greg considers a six pack but also thinks that drinking alone in his small flat on his second-hand brown couch feels a bit too stereotypical and sad to make it worth it. He checks his basket - bread, peanut butter, ground beef, cheddar, two jars of sauce, and rice now. He should probably get something from the fruits and vegetables part of the old school pyramid.

Then Greg feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, ready for some sassy text from David about Mycroft, but instead sees 'Anne.' He clicks in.

[8:35] _I'm sorry about the other night._

Greg stares at the six words and cannot think of what to say back.

\----------

The department has a coffee pot and Greg has his Mycroft French press, however, sometimes he needs a reason to get out of the office – a reason which is not a crime scene. Coffee is always the perfect excuse. 

Just before Greg enters the coffee shop a street away from New Scotland Yard, he sees Mycroft walking toward a car parked by the curb. Greg touches the door handle of the shop, looks down at it then turns and steps back.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft starts just slightly then turns his head in Greg’s direction. Greg smiles and they walk toward each other.

“Hi,” Greg says, “what are you doing around here?”

“Minor business at your work place.”

“Oh?” Mycroft only nods and says nothing more. Greg shrugs. “All right then.”

“You do look good in it.”

Greg blinks. “Hmm?”

Mycroft glances up and down Greg once, gesturing with his chin toward Greg then Greg remembers he is wearing the coat Mycroft gave him.

“Oh, I…” Greg laughs awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Look.” Greg points behind him. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Mycroft opens his mouth just slightly then closes it again and clears his throat. “That is not necessary, I have other –”

“Please,” Greg insists. “You bought me a coat. Let me get you a coffee.”

Mycroft’s mouth shuts. His eyes tick to the side though not quite looking at the car behind him. Then he looks back at Greg and smiles. “All right.”

Greg turns and waves an arm out for Mycroft to precede him. They walk into the shop and Greg orders an espresso, as requested, for Mycroft and just a regular coffee for himself, cream and sugar. Coffees in hand, they sit at a small table by the window. Mycroft blows on his espresso once then sets it back on the table. Greg gulps some of his coffee and mostly ignores how it burns his throat the whole way down. Mycroft raises his eyebrows but does not comment.

Greg puts his coffee down and leans forward slightly over the table. “Mycroft, about all this.” He touches the collar of his coat.

“Yes?” Mycroft picks up his espresso and blows on it again.

“You need to stop sending me these things.”

“And why is that?”

Greg sits up straight with a faint scoff. “Well, you…” He breathes out and crosses his arms. “You shouldn’t be spending all this money on me,” he says more quietly.

Mycroft sips his espresso. “It is not an imposition to me.”

“But it’s all very one sided, isn’t it?”

“It does not have to be.”

Greg sighs. “You know I’m still married?”

“You are separated.”

“That doesn’t mean ‘not married.’”

Mycroft puts his espresso cup down and cocks his head. “As I understand it, many separated couples see other people while separated.”

“We’re not.”

“Oh?” Mycroft gives him a look.

Greg furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Hmm.” Mycroft picks up his espresso again.

“Are you implying something?”

Mycroft sips his espresso then puts it down. “Of course not; I simply mean, perhaps you should consider it.”

“Consider you, you mean.”

Mycroft smiles.

Greg sighs and picks up his coffee again. “I suppose it would mean presents and rides in your company cars, treat me like a queen?”

Mycroft laughs, face momentarily transformed from his usual polite smiles, but he stops suddenly looking surprised. Greg grins and knows right then that Mycroft Holmes does not laugh for real very often. On whatever imaginary score board exists for whatever this is, Greg counts a point to himself. 

“I don’t really know anything about you,” Greg continues, back to serious, “other than you are Sherlock’s brother and work for some undisclosed portion of the government.” Greg takes a sip of his coffee. “And that you have expensive tastes, at least in gift giving.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft touches the handle of his espresso cup but does not pick it up. He bites the edge of his lip then looks right at Greg. “Then you need to give me the opportunity to have you learn more.” He picks up his espresso this time and adds, “also, despite what you may think, there are numerous aspects of your life and personality I do not know as well.”

Greg nods then shrugs. “We’re here now.”

Mycroft frowns, tapping his cup back onto the table, and blinks twice. “Now?”

“Why not?”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “It is three PM on a Wednesday.”

“And?”

“And we are both employed.”

Greg chuckles. “What’s five more minutes?”

“I have not planned time in my schedule.”

“You need to plan time for coffee?”

“Often.”

Greg picks up his mug then leans back in his chair. Nodding once, Greg takes a sip. “Well, I guess that is something more I know about you then.”

“That I am a busy man?”

“That you schedule coffee.”

Mycroft’s lip twitches and he smiles, that somewhat shy yet real smile which Greg thinks Mycroft is unaccustomed to using. “And that you have more of a sense of humor than I knew.”

Mycroft picks up his cup, slowly drinks the rest of the espresso then puts the cup back down. He pushes the cup slightly into the middle of the table then stands up. Greg sits up straight again but Mycroft holds up a hand for Greg to not get up.

“I apologize, but I cannot stay any longer.”

“Ah.”

“It was a pleasure to run in to you, however.”

Greg nods. “Yeah and remember what I said.” Mycroft tilts his head. “Enough with the presents.”

A slow smile spreads across Mycroft’s face, “Thank you for the coffee, Greg,” then he walks out.

\----------

Every year Greg has to write reviews for the staff directly under his command and every year he hates it more. As if it isn't hard enough to be a copper, to be mistrusted, disliked, and constantly under scrutiny by the press and the public, they have this too? Of course most jobs have staff reviews and evaluations and all of that corporate bullshit, but Greg thinks that since they deal with so many other horrible and difficult things, could they not be spared this? No boss likes to tell their hardworking sergeants to work on their positivity or timeliness; at least Greg doesn't.

Greg picks up his phone and dials Donovan.

"Sir?" she answers with more pleasant of a tone than Greg feels.

"You're going to hate me but could you find someone to grab me lunch?"

She scoffs. "Are you asking me to get you lunch?"

"Are you someone?"

"Not that someone."

"Don't we have interns right now somewhere?" Greg turns slightly so no one can see his face through his office window. "Please, I'm drowning in hierarchy right now."

"I'll find an intern; sandwich and some chips?"

Greg sighs happily. "You're a goddess."

"I know." Then she hangs up.

Greg puts the phone back in the cradle and rubs both hands over his face. "Fuck..." He drops his hands and turns back to his laptop. He taps his fingers lightly on the keys but not enough to cause anything to happen. "Okay, okay, better to barrel through."

Then he hears a knock at his door. Greg glances to the closed door, "Come in."

A woman he does not recognize wearing a white blouse and black pencil skirt steps in. "Hello sir, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I trust?"

He looks her up and down once then locks in on the rectangular box with a red card on top in her one hand. "Oh no."

"Sir?"

He points at the box in her hand. "What is it?"

"A gift from Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

Greg shakes his head. "Oh, and don't I know it. I meant, what's inside?"

She shakes her head. "That I do not know." She holds it out toward him. "May I?"

Greg sighs and waves a hand at her. She steps all the way into the office and comes around his desk. He holds out his hands and takes the box from her. Then he notices her other arm is held behind her back.

He nods his head toward her. "There's more?"

She pulls her hand around and in it is one rose.

"Shit."

She laughs then rests it on top of the box in his hands. Greg feels himself blushing and he thanks fucking Christ that his whole division has been avoiding his office today.

"Tell him this is getting a bit ridiculous," he manages to whisper.

She smiles. "I don't think I will, sir, sorry." 

"Please?"

She shakes her head. Then she backs away two steps, turns, and walks out of his office, closing the door behind her.

Drumming his finger tips on the box edges a few times, Greg shifts his chair around again and puts the box down on his desk. He picks the rose off the top and holds it between two fingers. To be honest, he is fairly certain no one has ever given him a rose before. He breathes in slowly then blows it out to calm his heart. Then he puts the rose down on top of some papers and picks up the red card (and isn't that hitting it over the head a bit?). The card reads:

_Perhaps you are worth some gifts._

_–M. Holmes._

Inside the box is a long, thin glass vase. Greg very clearly hears David's voice in his head, 'so he's wooing you?'

Greg rubs his temple, reads the card again and wonders if Mycroft learned about romance in a book. He bites the edge of his lip to keep from smiling. Then he picks up the vase and stands to get some water.

\----------

Greg stands beside Donovan in front of a white board with various photos taped up on it, lines drawn between some of them and notes underneath each one. Donovan writes ‘deceased’ under one of their possible suspects in the original murder.

“Sir?”

Greg turns around to see Anderson behind him. “Report?” Anderson hands him a paper on the toxicology. “So?”

Anderson shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Greg frowns and reads over the report then hands it back to Anderson. “All right, go over the evidence from the scene again. Get Clipton to help you.”

Anderson only nods and heads back the way he came. Greg turns back to the white board, picking up the case file as he does.

“What did you get from the witness statements?” Greg asks.

“Still going over them,” Donovan replies, “not much of a physical description to go on. The killer still sounds exactly like Brian Davis.” She waves a hand at the crime scene picture of the deceased.

“Yeah and a thousand other early thirties white guys.”

“Exactly, and,” she taps the white board then puts her hands on her hips, “no motive.”

“They worked together but…” Greg closes the case file, drops his arm and lets his eyes wander over the photographs. Two murders, two days apart and too many suspects. Neither of the victims were exactly people you’d invite into your home.

“Maybe –“

“Sir!”

Greg and Donovan spin around at the shout and see PC Avery and Sergeant Brooks behind them, both breathing heavily.

“The wife,” Brooks says.

“Which wife?” Donovan asks.

“His,” Brooks points over their shoulders.

Donovan huffs. “Hailey, don’t just –“

“Mark’s,” Avery supplies instead. “The first victim. Mark Cooper’s wife.”

Brooks nods and sucks in a deep breath. “She’s gone. Michael brought her in to get her statement again but she’s gone from the interview room.”

“Gone?” Donovan gasps. “Gone where?”

Avery shakes his head. “Peters is looking but I think –“

“Think she ran!” Brooks interrupts.

Greg groans. “Find her!”

Brooks and Avery spin around so fast Greg fears they might fall over each other as they rush away again, Brooks pulling out her mobile as she goes. Greg turns to Donovan and she shakes her head. She turns around to the white board and puts a star next to the picture of Susanne Cooper.

“This is getting absurd,” Donovan says, still staring at the white board. “She wasn't..." Donovan huffs and shakes her head. "If she's the one, why..."

"Yeah," Greg mutters.

Greg stares at the board, photos that connect but not how he needs and now a wrench in the works, the wife when it appeared to be leaning toward 'business.' Greg is definitely not going to call Sherlock.

After several more tedious hours of searching and witness statements and evidence review, yet again, Greg finally manages to get home to his flat. He considers himself lucky to not have a migraine. Greg walks out of the lift, keys in hand, wondering how many avenues of surprise this newest case is going to take them. The case has Donovan acting like some kind of hunting dog over every scrap of information. As Greg rounds the corner, he sees the door to his flat and what looks like a small package at the base.

"Mycroft..." Greg whispers.

Once he gets closer, Greg sees the telltale envelope on top of the package, this time a brownish hue. Greg stops and stoops to pick up the small package then unlocks his front door. Once inside, Greg shuts the door behind him, hangs up his coat and keys then carries the package over to the couch. He pulls off the card but decides to go for the package first this time.

"What are you..."

He pulls off the wrapping and finds a hardback book inside. It is "Dr. No" by Ian Fleming. Greg laughs and picks up the envelope again. He opens the flap and pulls out the card.

_To take your mind off your work for a while._

_–M. Holmes_

Greg shakes his head and sets the card on the coffee table in front of him, embossed MH facing him. Greg holds up the book then rests it back down on his knee. He pulls his mobile from his pocket and pick’s Mycroft’s number. He texts, _‘Thank you.’_

\----------

It is not until after Greg adds the chicken and peppers to his frying pan that he remembers he should probably find his Teriyaki sauce if he wants this to be an actual stir fry. He has some onions chopped up to add to this meal as well but the sauce is first priory. He is fairly sure he bought some but as he looks through the cabinet over the stove he is coming up empty.

“If I were Teriyaki…”

Greg stares at his fridge then opens it and checks the door. Sure enough, the unopened teriyaki sauce sits on the second shelf of the door. Greg shakes his head at himself and pulls it out. He puts the sauce beside the stove then picks up the cutting board with the onions he chopped. Greg slides the onions in then picks up the spatula again, stirring everything around. Greg picks up the Teriyaki and pours some into the pan, leaning back slightly from the hiss of steam and oil.

Across the counter, Greg’s mobile starts to vibrate. He puts down the sauce, stirs once with the spatula then leans over and grabs his mobile.

“Yeah?”

“Hi.”

Greg’s head jerks up. “Anne?”

She chuckles and clears her throat. “Yeah, hi.”

“Hi.” Greg looks down at his stir fry, absently pushing chicken and peppers around. “How are you?”

“I… hmm. All right.”

“Uh huh.”

"Long work day."

Greg laughs once breathlessly. "Yeah, aren't they all?"

“Look, I…" Anne clears her throat. "You’re right.”

Greg puts down the spatula and paces across his kitchen. “About what?”

“We need to keep talking. If it is just space and nothing else then, well, what does that solve?”

Greg smiles and leans against the counter. “Yeah.”

“I’m not saying I want… I mean….” She huffs and he hears a door close. “I just mean, I know it’s not asking so much for me to call.”

Greg chuckles. “Good. That’s good.”

“Or you to call, you know,” she adds. “It works both ways.”

Greg nods even though she cannot see him. “Got it, call and be called.”

"Because we can talk about this, talk through this, right?"

He remembers fights they had, shouting in the living room, marching downstairs to sleep on the couch. But then Anne sneaking down to join him, dancing in the hallway when he got home from work, and the way Anne always said ‘I’m sorry’ as though the world would end if he did not believe her.

"I hope so.” Greg's hand clenches around the mobile. “Don't you think we can?" 

"I..." He can hear her breathing deeply and he wonders if she's crying.

"Anne, we will," Greg insists. He imagines her standing in the kitchen like he is now, that yellow dress with the checkered pattern and her smile when he would flick the dish water at her, how hard she laughed when they once bumped into each other and dropped their plates to shatter on the floor at the same time, kissing her against the counter with fingers in her hair. "I don't want to give up yet."

"It's not a guarantee, Greg."

"I know, but we'll... we'll call."

“Right, right.” She breathes in and Greg hears a voice in the background which sounds like one of Anne’s siblings. “Look, I need to go. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Bye, Greg.” Then the line clicks off.

Greg pulls the mobile away from his ear and looks at the screen. “Bye.”

He breathes in slowly and smiles, tapping his mobile on the palm of his hand. Something like hope sparks and then suddenly he smells burning.

“Shit!” Greg jolts up and rushes back to the stove, turning off the burner before his dinner is completely blackened.

\----------

Greg sits at the bar with Patrick and Diane from Drugs Directorate on one side and Donovan on the other. Diane keeps looking up at the football match but it appears her team enjoys making fools of themselves. She keeps sighing and taking large gulps of her beer.

"Just give up," Donovan says to Diane, "what did you expect?"

"Victory. I always expect victory." She takes another drink of her beer then looks across Greg at Donovan. "I'm just going to blame you, that okay?"

Donovan rolls her eyes and holds up her beer. "Whatever makes you happy."

"It does."

"How are things in drugs?" Greg asks Patrick.

Patrick scoffs. "I refuse to discuss work at the pub."

"That bad?"

Diane laughs harshly and shakes her head. Patrick glances at Greg then points at Diane. "That says it all."

Greg and Donovan look at each other and Donovan clinks her glass against Greg's. Then they turn to Patrick and Diane. Diane stares up at the TV screen biting her lip. Patrick rolls his eyes and drinks his beer again.

"Not layoffs, is it?" Greg asks, unable to resist.

"Can we talk about something positive that has nothing to do with the MET?" Patrick insists.

Donovan snorts. "What like kittens and puppies?"

"Yes," Diane and Patrick say together.

Donovan frowns. "I don't have either."

"Oh!" Diane gasps as one player breaks away down the field with the ball.

They all look up for a moment but Greg turns away again almost instantly. It's not his team and he hasn't been keeping track of rankings this season what with his personal life turning upside down anyway. He takes a sip of beer and wonders if he's too old for a pair of shots?

"So?" Donovan asks with a nudge to his arm. "What about you?"

"What?"

"What is with all those presents you’ve been getting?"

Greg twists his glass between his hands. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing." She leans closer and whispers. "It have to do with Anne?"

Greg sighs. "No."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Donovan, it's not your business."

She sits up straight. "Come on."

"Should I start asking you about Anderson?"

Donovan flips her hair and shrugs. "Go ahead; it was a mistake, that's over."

Greg frowns and drinks some of his beer. He puts his glass down on the bar top and stares at the bottles of liquor behind the bar. He sees Anne's favorite brand of vodka and he wonders absently what Mycroft drinks. Greg rubs a hand over his eyes. 

"So, if it's not Anne then who is it?"

"Who says it's just one person?" Greg looks at her and smiles. "Maybe I have a lot of admirers?"

Donovan crosses her arms. "I think maybe you just don't want me to know that your own wife is trying to win you back."

Greg groans. "Donovan, it is not Anne!"

Beside Greg, Patrick hisses something in Diane's ear, pointing at his watch. She shakes her head and pulls out her mobile, putting it to her ear. Greg suspects they have some sort of sting going on.

Donovan nudges Greg's shoulder again. He looks at her and she holds up her beer. "If it's not your wife then who is it?"

Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."

\----------

When Greg’s mobile rings after four in the afternoon, he clicks answer without looking at the name. The day has been too long and too full of paperwork for him to really care.

“Yeah?”

“Hello, Greg.”

Greg sits up straight, eyes checking the window and door of his office as if he expects Mycroft to be standing right there. “Hello.” The line remains silent for a minute. “What’s going on?”

“Going on?”

“Well, you’re calling me.”

“Yes.” Something on Mycroft’s end makes a beeping noise and Greg wonders if Mycroft is in his office – Greg assumes he must have an office – or if he’s in the back of a mysterious black car. “I wanted to thank you for coffee a few weeks ago.”

“You already thanked me, remember?”

“I wished to do so again.”

“It was just coffee, not a date.”

Mycroft laughs, one of the polite ones. “It was rather impromptu.”

“I take it that’s not your usual habit?”

“No.”

Greg leans back in his chair and shifts his mobile around to his other ear. “Did you call me just for that?”

“Do you think it not worth a phone call?”

“Don’t you ever text?”

“I find it simpler to speak than to attempt to convey tone of voice through text.” 

“You remember you’ve sent me about a dozen written notes by now, right?”

He hears Mycroft clear his throat significantly through the phone line and Greg smiles instantly. 

“I do not believe it is that many,” Mycroft says after another beat.

“Want me to count them?”

“That is not necessary,” Mycroft says somewhat tersely.

“Because you already know how many?”

“You sound as though you are enjoying yourself.”

Greg chuckles. “Maybe and you’re welcome, again.”

“Hmm?”

“For coffee.”

“We shall have to do it again.”

Greg grins and runs a hand through his hair. When he puts his hand back down on the desk his eye catches the glint of his wedding ring in the overhead lights. He pulls his hand off the desk and runs it over his thigh once.

“Yeah,” Greg says quietly.

“I am afraid I must leave you now, Chinese company to bankrupt and a dictator to replace in South America.”

Greg jerks to sitting upright with surprise. “What?”

Mycroft chuckles. “A joke, Greg.”

“Is it?”

Mycroft laughs politely again and the line clicks off. Greg pulls his mobile away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. He puts it down on his desk then threads his fingers together. He rubs a fingertip over the edge of his ring and grits his teeth.

\----------

Greg walks in the front door of the hospital and flashes his badge though he’s pretty sure this security guard knows who he is. He strides to the lifts and rides up to the fourth floor. Anne is usually in or around surgery this time of day and, from what Greg can remember of the last time they had a normal conversation, she is breaking in a new trainee anaesthetist.

“Hi Clara,” Greg says as he walks up to the nurses' station. “Anne around?”

Clara smiles and stands, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Popping out of a surgery now I think. How’re you? I hear you two are…” She purses her lips and shrugs.

Greg smiles with teeth as he walks away down the hall, “thank you, Clara.” As soon as Greg turns all the way around away from her, his face falls. “Christ…”

He stops at a T in the hall then looks left and right. He probably should have asked Clara which surgery Anne was leaving. He picks right and then almost runs into Anne as she exits a room.

“Oh! Hi.” She pulls off her hair guard and half smiles. “Hi, uh, what’re you doing here?”

“I had some time and I thought,” he shrugs, “maybe we should try and see if we could talk in person for a small change.”

Anne smiles. “Ah, yes, the difficult task.”

“So, good day?” Greg asks lamely.

“Yes, patient went under just fine, not too difficult a surgery.” She clears her throat. “You? I don’t think I saw anything major in the paper?”

“No, no, calm as it ever gets right now.”

“Good, that’s good.”

Greg looks down at her shoes, flat and comfortable, then up again. “So, you enjoying your space?”

She sighs and gives him a look. Then she blows out a puff of air. “It’s really quiet most of the time actually.”

“I know, me too.”

“It’s just…” She shifts her weight back a little and cracks her knuckles. “It hasn’t been what I expected.”

Greg frowns. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, clarity? Thought maybe I’d be happier?” Greg’s gut clenches but he does not say anything. Anne shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking maybe you are right that space isn’t what we need?”

"No?"

"I know we've been talking but it's..." She shakes her head and looks away. “Well, I thought maybe…”

“Do you mean you want me to move back in?"

“I, uh…” She clears her throat. “I don’t know.”

Greg swallows and feels his fingers tingle. “What do you know then?”

Anne looks at him, her eyes circling around his face. Then she reaches out and touches Greg’s hair, brushing past his ear. “I don’t want to be alone.” She drops her hand and Greg can still feel her fingers. 

“Do you have time for lunch?” He asks.

She nods. “Yeah, I do.”

They turn together back down the hall, Anne's hand brushing against Greg's as they walk.

\----------

“Well, Kate and John had another fight about whose side of the room is whose.” Claire rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her wine. “So John has laid down a pair of trousers as the ‘line’ now.”

“Is that a twin thing?” Greg asks waving to the waiter for more water.

“Oh, I don’t think so; didn’t I do that once?” David asks then leans in close to Claire’s ear. “No little sisters allowed?”

Claire puts her palm over his face and shoves him back against the window beside their table. “No annoying older brothers.”

“And you have two.” Anne points between David and Greg with her fork.

“One was enough,” Greg says, “but then, Claire, you would not understand the horror of having a younger sister, would ya?”

Claire rolls her eyes again. “How old are we now?”

“I think I’m at seven,” David says, “which would put you at around two. You’re welcome.”

Claire just sighs. “The point is my children are insane.”

“Keeping up the Lestrade line.” David puts a hand over his chest. “Be still my heart.”

The three siblings chuckle and Anne smiles, taking a sip of her wine. They all fall silent a moment, working on their various meals. Then Greg puts his fork down and leans his elbows on the table.

"Good to see you both now, don't think we'll get the chance round Christmas."

Claire frowns. "You know it's only two weeks away, right?"

"We're going to see my family," Anne says, "I haven't been back there in awhile and they have been asking, so we thought..." She looks at Greg and smiles, "what with things looking better."

Greg squeezes her leg under the table and she gently kicks his shin.

"So..." David holds up with water glass. "No more separation?"

"Well -" Greg and Anne say at once then look at each other.

"I haven't got rid of the flat yet," Greg continues, "but moving things back in now."

"And staying the night," Anne finishes.

David whistles and Claire laughs. Greg rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, keep the sibling nature to a minimum."

"We oldest siblings must give our younger ones a hard time so they grow and learn." David nods sagely. "I read it in a book, so it must be true."

Claire stares at David and shakes her head. She spears a cherry tomato on her fork then turns back to Greg and Anne. "Well, I am happy for you."

"Thank you," Anne says as she places her napkin on the table. "And with that I am running to the ladies room, be right back."

She stands and walks from the table. As soon as she is out of ear shot, David knocks his glass down on the table making Greg and Claire jump.

"What?" Greg snaps.

"Really?"

"David, don't you -"

"Is this really a good idea? You told me you were sleeping in separate rooms for what, three months? And after that she wants even more space so you're in that flat of yours, how long?"

"It wasn't..."

"Also three months," Claire says quietly, "but David, he -"

"No." David waves a hand. "The point is problems for Six months there and It's not as though you two have been seeing a counselor or anything."

"Come on!" Greg hisses.

"So what happened? All of a sudden she's 'move back in, honey'? How do you know this isn't just holiday nostalgia that will fade in a week and you're right back down where she put you?"

"David," Greg whispers to try and make David keep his voice down, "It is my marriage, not yours, and it's not like I am entirely innocent and perfect a husband, all right?"

"Maybe, but you're my brother so I care about you," David whispers right back.

"Okay, okay." Claire puts a hand on both their arms. "Greg can make his own decisions, David, even if they might be wrong or rash." She gives Greg a look then pulls her hands back. "So, calm down."

David picks up his fork and twirls it around in his pasta though he doesn't really get any on the fork. "Fine," he finally mutters then glances at Greg. "What about your Mycroft then?"

"What's a Mycroft?"

Greg sighs and leans back against the booth. "It was never a thing, David."

"It sounded like a thing."

"What's a Mycroft?" Claire insists.

"A who."

"Mycroft is a person?"

"A person who gives Greg presents."

"Presents?"

"Expensive presents."

"Would you both stop?" Greg picks up his water and takes a big gulp. "You're giving me heart burn."

Claire leans forward over the table. "What kind of expensive presents?"

Greg sighs loudly. "Stop being teenagers."

"No," they both say.

Greg puts his glass down. "Look, we weren't seeing each other." Claire gasps quietly but Greg pushes on. "I mean, there might have been a connect...” Greg stops and breathes through his nose. “But it doesn't matter because Anne and I are back together."

David drums his fingers on the table. "Yes, Anne."

"You like Anne."

David holds up a finger. "Somewhat."

Greg frowns. "You're really helpful."

"Shh!" Claire hisses suddenly then Anne appears a few seconds later.

Anne slides into the booth beside Greg and kisses his cheek. She picks up her wine glass. "So, talk about me while I was gone? I hope it was good."

Claire and David only glance at each other while Greg smiles.

\----------

Greg stands at the curb outside of 221b Baker Street, snow coming down. Molly stands beside him with her mobile to her ear calling a cab. Sherlock rushed out a few minutes ago after John said Sherlock called his brother, something about ‘the woman.’ John suggested they leave, so now they’re on the curb. How very like Sherlock to have his party ended by a surprise present leading to possible mysterious death, or at least that’s what it all sounded like? 

Greg, however, has something more personal to think about and how it most definitely is not true, at all. 

Greg pulls his mobile out and texts Anne: _Party over. Be home soon._ He clicks the screen off, staring at it for a few seconds then puts it in his pocket again.

“Okay,” Molly says suddenly, “cab on its way.”

“Great.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll…” Greg looks up at the snow and halfheartedly rubs some off his coat. “I’ll call one too.”

Molly nods. “Well, the party was…”

“Oh, it was.”

Molly sighs and holds up her bag of presents. “More parties to stop at before the night is up.”

Greg nods. “Better than that one I hope. Are you… well, strange enough to see him apologize for once.” Molly blushes and turns her head away. Greg bites the inside of his cheek then scratches the back of his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t –“

“It’s all right. He’ll never really change, not… well, not with us at least.” She looks up at Greg. “Though he is a bit different when John is around.”

“Oh yeah.” Greg glances up at the flat. “Thank god for us.”

"It's just..." Molly's focus shifts off into the snow falling over the street. "I think maybe sometimes we hold out because we're sure someone will change their mind even if they really never will."

"But you can't be sure."

"Don’t you always end up telling yourself you should have known?" Molly asks looking up at him.

Greg shakes his head. "You can't be expected to read minds, Molly."

"Just words." She sighs and she shifts her hold on the bag of presents. "You sometimes think you want something from someone but it was always a fantasy."

Greg stares at her hair, bow near the top of her head and snow making a pattern with the brown. "Or they want something different from you."

Molly looks up at him and opens her mouth to speak but then her mobile makes a quacking noise.

"Oh!" Molly pulls it out of her pocket and her face falls just a little as she reads her text. "They want me to come in?"

"Who does?"

"Work wants me to come in, tonight." A cab pulls up to the curb, the driver pointing at Molly, and she sighs. "Who wants to go to a Christmas party anyway?"

Greg frowns. "Would say you do."

Molly shrugs then Greg opens the taxi door for her. "Thanks, Happy Christmas."

Greg nods and closes the door. "You too."

Greg watches the cab drive away and becomes suddenly aware of how cold he has become standing out here in the snow. Suddenly Greg’s mobile buzzes, as though someone had been waiting for Molly to leave. Greg pulls it from his coat pocket and sees ‘Mycroft.’ 

Greg turns and puts the mobile to his ear. “Hi, everything all right?”

“As disconcerting as it is to have my brother call me around Christmas time, yes, it should be. We shall see.”

Greg bites his lip and paces a few steps. “Right. Good.”

“How was the Baker Street party?”

“Somewhat awkward but your brother played for us, so not all bad.”

“Charming,” Mycroft says tersely.

Greg frowns and stops walking. “What is it?” Mycroft sighs loudly. “What?” Greg insists.

“I simply wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas in Dorset, you and Anne. Should be chill and snowy by the sea for Christmas. Splendid.”

"Excuse me?" Greg snaps.

"I wish you a wonderful time," Mycroft snaps back.

Greg shakes his head. “Are you bugging Sherlock’s flat?”

“I don’t need to.”

"Yet here you are calling me now."

"The time felt appropriate."

“Are you angry because I am spending Christmas with my wife?” Greg sweeps his arm across the air in front of him and fists his hand. “She’s my wife!”

“Your separated wife.”

“Not anymore.”

“As I have learned.”

“And we are not exactly an item, Mycroft!”

“That is not the point!” Mycroft growls.

“Then what is?”

He hears Mycroft breathe in sharply but then he says nothing. Greg walks forward two more steps. "What do you want from me, Mycroft?"

"You are aware what I..." Mycroft makes a sort of choked off noise then breathes in loudly enough that Greg can hear it. "Sherlock should be at Barts soon. I must meet him."

"You can't be angry with me, Mycroft," Greg says.

"I am not." Then Mycroft hangs up.

Greg drops his hand with an aggravated huff, shaking some snow off his coat. 

He stares down at his mobile and thinks about calling Anne, asking her about when they were separated, about now, about who she was with tonight, if there is someone else, a PE teacher, maybe? He thinks about calling Mycroft back, telling him to fuck off, telling him sorry, asking him to please not be angry. 

Greg shakes his head and puts his mobile away. Gazing down the road again, Greg waves a hand in the air to try and grab a cab. He does not think about Mycroft or what Sherlock said or doubt or regret.

\----------

After the holiday, Greg comes back to work to find a Christmas present from Mycroft. The small box is wrapped in red with a gold ribbon and a gold card. The card only reads:

_Happy Christmas._

_–M. Holmes_

The box opens on a hinge and holds a watch, black leather band with a silver face and no numbers. Greg cannot decide if he should feel guilty about Anne or guilty about Mycroft. He puts the watch back in the box and leaves it in a desk drawer with the gold card underneath.

\----------

Anne and Greg sit across from each other in a restaurant embracing the modern, sleek metal style which smacks of New York City high life. Fortunately, the classy look is not only for show as the food reflects the same charm and taste.

"Salmon good?" Greg asks.

Anne nods and points at his plate with her fork. "Yours?"

Greg spears another piece of gnocchi. "Oh yes."

"Good." Anne picks up her water glass, takes a sip then puts it back down again, her eyes wandering around the restaurant.

Greg slides his foot forward and nudges hers under the table. Anne's eyes tick back to him but she pulls her feet back. Greg gives her a rueful look and she rolls her eyes.

"So, how was New Years with the girls?" Greg asks, finishing the last of his beer.

Anne puts down her fork and lays her hands on the table. "Greg..."

"Not so good?" Greg chuckles. "Don't tell me Angela needed to be carried home again? Aren't we all getting old for that?"

"I didn't spend New Years with the girls."

Greg blinks. "What?"

"Greg." She breathes in slowly, clears her throat then breathes out again. "I want a divorce."

His fork hits his plate with a loud clink and Greg fists his hands in on his thighs. "What?"

Anne shakes her head and looks away. "You heard me."

"You can't be serious."

"I just said it."

"You can't be serious!" Greg snaps.

Anne leans over the table and hisses, "Keep your voice down."

"I just moved back in and now you want a divorce?"

"I thought it was changing; I thought I still felt the same for you."

"No." Greg shakes his head and reaches out to take her hand but she pulls it off the table. He breathes in sharply and rubs his palm over the table cloth. "We're trying, Anne. We are working on it."

“It’s a sinking ship, Greg.”

"No, it's not. We have to give us a chance."

She huffs. "Really, you sound like a cliché."

"And you sound like a bitch."

Anne's eyebrows fly up and her mouth falls open. Greg huffs sharply and sits back in his chair, scratching a hand through his hair. Anne drums her finger tips on the table then brushes her hair back over her shoulder.

"You can't mean this," Greg says finally.

Anne nods. “I mean it. We're over, there is nothing left. We’re both married to our jobs more than each other, anyway.”

“But..." Greg shakes his head. "I thought that is what made us work?” Greg insists. “We both knew about the jobs, knew how much we’d both be away and be busy?”

“Well, we were wrong.”

"But you asked me to move back in!" Greg insists again.

"It was a mistake. I was feeling nostalgic." Anne holds up one hand and swipes it through the air. 

David's words flash in Greg's head. "Nostalgic?"

"We should just make a clean break now because I am done."

"Done..."

"We barely know each other anymore, Greg." Anne shrugs. "I don't know any of your friends, you don't know mine. We don't really like many of the same things. The only thing we have together is time and that is in the past. I want to move on."

"Move on?"

"Stop repeating everything I say! Yes, move on."

Greg sits up and grips the edge of the table. "Are you seeing someone else?"

"What?" Anne looks away. "Why would you ask me that? This is about us!"

"You didn't spend New Years with the girls." Anne sighs and still does not look at him. Greg crosses his arms and remembers many an interrogation with all the same body language. "So?"

"He's a teacher," she says quietly.

Greg grits his teeth. "PE?"

Her head jerks back to him with a look of surprise and worry. Greg feels nauseous for a brief moment and stares down at the table, their plates mostly finished but her wine glass still half full. 

He considers knocking over her wine so the red liquid spills off the table onto her pale green skirt, staining it forever. He wants to be petty, scathing, tell her he had a better offer he turned down because he was married to her. He wants to shout, to knock all the dishes onto the floor, to just call Mycroft and have him send a car, goodbye.

"You want a divorce," he says quietly instead.

"Yes." She looks down at the table and smoothes a hand over her napkin. "I can send your things to your flat or you pick them up when I'm at work."

Greg scoffs loudly. "So fast, are you?"

Anne glares at him. "This has hardly been fast, Greg; it's been coming for years."

Greg uncrosses his arms and buttons his suit jacket. "You want a divorce? Fine." Greg pushes his chair back and stands up. He picks up his coat off of the chair then threads his arms through. He leans down over the table close to her. "You've got it." Then he turns and stalks out.


	3. Genuinely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”_
> 
> _“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”_
> 
> _Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”_
> 
> _Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”_

It only takes three weeks for Greg and Anne to have paperwork drawn up and sent to the courts for all the legal parts of divorce to be set in motion. The solicitor tells Greg it will still take four to five months for the whole process to finalize, the various steps, division of property and mandatory waiting periods.

"Just send me the papers when they are through and I will sign them."

As far as Greg and his pension are concerned, he is divorced. He just wishes he did not have to wait for the courts to see it all be truly final. Anne, after all, is already off shagging someone else.

David, Greg's rugby mate Chris, and John help Greg move the lion's share of his things from the house to his flat when Anne informs him she will be out. Greg packs up clothes and shoes, all his suits and t-shirts and shorts he hasn't worn in years, every scrap of cloth that is his. He finds CDs, albums in the basement and the turn table he only used twice. He takes all the DVDs he bought, even Sense and Sensibility, the books only he reads and maybe a few they'd shared. He picks two matching chairs from the living room, the standing lamp from the bedroom, and half the dishes from the kitchen. 

"I should take the lawn mower."

"You know your flat doesn't have a lawn, right?" Chris asks.

"Yep."

"Got your files," David says as he comes down the stairs with boxes in his arms. "You sure you don't want the cabinet they were all in?"

"It's a plain metal filing cabinet, nothing special."

David shakes his head and walks out the front door to the truck they rented. Chris follows after carrying the stereo with Greg's football balanced precariously on top by his chin. Greg looks around the living room and puts his hands on his hips. Pictures still hang on the walls, sit in frames on shelves and Greg knows exactly where each photo album is, including their wedding album. He knows he should be taking things like mementos, reminders of Christmases and trips and nights alone but right now even the snow globe from Paris on the mantel Anne bought with her last Francs in the third year of their marriage screams betrayal.

"Greg?" He turns to John standing beside him now. "Look, I'm -"

"Don't give me sympathies, John."

John nods and purses his lips. "How about I keep Sherlock off you for a while?"

Greg chuckles quietly. "Yeah, that is a help."

John grins. "I do what I can." He waves a hand around the room. "Anything else in here?"

Greg frowns and sweeps his eyes over his life then points at the small mahogany end table beside the couch. 

John clicks his tongue. "You sure you just want to take it?"

"I'm sure. Put whatever is in it on the coffee table."

"Yes, sir."

David walks back into the house a second later, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes lock on Greg then he jogs down into the living room, hooks his arm around Greg's, and pulls him away. He leads Greg into the kitchen then lets him go and stands right in front of him.

"So, all packed, stole come chairs... You okay?"

"Yeah."

He puts his hands on Greg's shoulders. "Really?"

Greg glares at him. "Look, I just want over and out of here, yeah?"

"You want to burn the house down?" 

Greg sighs.

David shrugs and waves a hand above their heads. "We could do that right now. No problem. I have matches. Maybe even a lighter!"

Greg cracks and laughs despite himself. David grins and lets go of Greg's shoulders. "There we are. Come on." He claps Greg on the back. "Let's get the fuck out."

Everything ends up in a pile in the middle of his flat between the TV and the coffee table still in boxes. The files he takes to the office. Most of them are copies of cases of his which had either gone cold or he became directly entangled in. He steals one of the empty filing cabinets from the basement and shoves it in a corner of his office. He'll probably take them back to his flat at some point but for now it is one less thing to find a place for.

The day after Greg's big move of possessions from house to flat, a card appears on his desk at work. Greg stares at it for five minutes until he picks up the envelope and takes out the 'MH' embossed card.

_Condolences._

_-M. Holmes_

Greg rips the card in half, crumples it and the envelope into a ball between his hands then throws it across his office so it hits the blinds and rebounds into the corner behind his door.

\----------

A week later, Greg comes back from a budget meeting to find a box topped with a light blue card on his desk. Greg throws his papers onto the floor and turns two steps back into the division room. He scans the room quickly then sees a back he does not recognize walking away.

"Oi!" He shouts.

Half a dozen people jump at their desks, Gupta gasps high, and Donovan almost crashes right into Peters when he skids to a halt in front of her. By the far exit door, visitor pass on his lapel, the stranger stops in surprise.

"You!" Greg points across the room.

Avery and Bradford point to themselves but Greg waves a dismissive hand at them. "No, no, you! The suit."

Greg sees the man swallow even from the other side of the room and his fingers wrap around the door handle. Greg shakes his head and points at the floor right in front of him. The man looks very much as though he wants to run.

"Now!" Greg shouts.

"Sir..." he says, clearing his throat, "I have to -"

"Get back over here now."

The man drops his hand from the door and heads across the room toward Greg. Every police officer in the division watches him walk back. Once he is within arm's length, Greg grabs his shoulder and pushes him into his office. He crosses to his desk, picks up the box and holds it out.

"Take it back."

"I don't think..."

"Take it back, I said!"

"Inspector Lestrade, it is only a present!"

"And I don't want it. So take it back."

The man runs a hand down his tie. "He said -"

"I don't care what he said. Take it back."

"I can't!"

"Why? Because you'll be arrested?"

The man opens his mouth then shuts it again, eyes darting around the obvious police officer office. He steps forward and takes the box from Greg's hand.

He pulls the card off the top. "Can I leave the -"

"No!" Greg snaps. "Out."

The man turns and scurries out of Greg's office. Greg stares at his empty doorway then sits down in his chair. A minute later, Donovan walks in and closes the door behind her.

"What was that?"

Greg only shakes his head then picks up a pen, clicking the end, and pulls a case file off of one of his stacks.

"Sir!" She insists.

"What?" He snaps back.

She sweeps a hand through the air. "What is wrong with you?"

Greg holds the pen on the page, digging slowly into the paper until it starts to blot like a fountain pen. He drops the pen and leans back in his chair.

"Nothing." He rubs a hand over his face then crosses his arms. "I'm fine."

"Fine? So fine you're shouting at couriers?"

Greg flings his hands up in the air. "Maybe I'm high strung."

Donovan rolls her eyes at his sarcasm. "No, you're not." She steps closer to his desk and folds her arms together. "Is this about your wife?"

"Donovan…"

"Maybe you need some time off to -"

"I'll ask you to stay out of my personal life, Sergeant," Greg snaps.

Donovan's mouth click closed and she nods. "Sir." She glances at the closed door then back to him. "What should I tell them?"

Greg picks up his pen again. "Let them think what they want."

She nods and turns on her heel, opening the door then closing it behind her. Greg looks back down at the case file in front of him. He reads the same line three times before he drops the pen once more and puts his hands over his face.

\----------

Greg kneels on the floor of his apartment pulling books from a box. The standing lamp is in his bedroom while the two chairs are in opposite corners of the living room. He hasn't decided on the side table yet. Greg picks up books and puts them on the bookshelf in no particular order. The book shelf already had a few books and CDs on it, so Greg will have to reorganize eventually he supposes. He should probably get some kind of CD rack, though at the moment the stereo is just on the floor.

Greg leans back on his heels and stands up with the box still half full at his feet. He strides over to the coffee table, picks up his bottle of beer then collapses onto the couch. He takes a big swig then glances around the flat, walls empty minus the furniture leaning against them. It may not be a huge flat but it is fine. Thank God he didn't break off the lease right away when Anne suggested he move back in.

Greg glances at his beer and sighs. "Typical, Lestrade."

He puts one foot up on the coffee table, knocking against something. He peers around his socked foot and sees "Dr. No." Greg breathes through his nose slowly and takes another drink of his beer. Then, as if Mycroft has a tap into Greg's brain, his mobile begins to buzz. Greg stands up from the couch and walks over to the box of books which his mobile lies next to. He crouches down, picks it up and indeed sees 'Mycroft' on the caller ID.

"Get out of my head," Greg whispers and lets it buzz until it changes over into voicemail.

Greg puts the mobile in his trouser pocket and kneels down again beside the box. He started this one so he should finish it tonight. How hard is it to put books on a bookshelf? Half of his books are biographies - he has always been interested in people, that is why he does the job he does - while the other half are non-fiction books related to crime or toxicology or the law. Thus, most of his books are pretty thick and with this old bookcase he is a bit concerned about breaking a shelf. What better way to find out then by filling it up?

Greg puts his beer down, picks up "Evidence: Text and Materials" by Gregory Durston, and places it on the second shelf.

"Let's see how much you can take," Greg says to the shelf.

His pocket starts to vibrate. Greg sighs and pulls his mobile out: 'Mycroft.'

"What?" Greg grumbles and answers this time. "What?"

There is a pause then, "Hello, Greg."

Greg stands up and paces across the wood floor. "What do you want?" He says softer.

"I am sorry you did not like the gift."

"I didn't open it."

"So I heard."

Greg stops pacing and glances back at his beer on the floor. "Did you fire that bloke?"

"I am not so petty, Detective Inspector."

"We're back to title now?"

"Well, you seem to be attempting to push our relationship back from the progress we have made."

"What progress? And we are not in a relationship, Mycroft."

"Hmm." Mycroft clicks his tongue. "There are various interpretations of that word."

"Oh, shove your semantics, Mycroft!"

Mycroft sighs. "I recall a conversation not long ago where you stated I could not be angry with you. I would remind you of that sentiment now."

Greg frowns. "It was appropriate then."

"As it is now."

"Whatever you want to think."

"Greg..."

Greg rubs a hand over his eyes. "I'm hanging up."

"Please, don't."

Greg drops his hand and presses 'end' on the touch screen. 

He knows he's being ridiculous, stupid, out of character; he knows that none of this is Mycroft's fault. Mycroft did not break up his marriage or send Anne into the arms of some PE teacher or whomever. Mycroft isn't trying to make things worse or really doing anything wrong but, damn it, if Greg doesn't just want someone to blame.

He stares at the box, a few books on the floor beside it and his half empty beer. He squeezes his mobile then turns and tosses it onto the couch. For a minute, he just stares at it where it landed. Nothing happens so he crouches down to pick up his beer. Greg walks out of the living room, into the kitchen, and drops the beer into the sink so the liquid slowly seeps out down the drain. 

\----------

The next day they get the bodies of two dead children in a traffic collision, their father with nothing but a broken nose, and Greg wonders why the hell is he so angry? If he stays angry – at Anne, at the universe, at Mycroft, at himself – he will just grow old and bitter. There is no way Greg will turn into that man.

So he lets go.

\----------

"Hello Molly."

Molly takes off her plastic goggles as Greg walks in the door. "Hi." She points at the body on her table. "Are you here for her?"

"Yep, give me."

Molly turns to the table beside her and picks up her clip board. "Looks like just what they said at the scene, died of the stab wound. The toxicology is still being run but pretty sure it looks like cocaine in her system too."

"Glorious."

"Also." Molly puts down the clip board and clears her throat. "During the postmortem I found out she was pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Greg snaps.

"Only about a month. It is possible she might not have known."

"Or she did and there is our motive."

Molly shrugs. "I just cut them open." Greg raises his eyebrows and Molly puts up her hands. "Sorry, sorry."

Greg shakes his head. "No, it's fine."

"I'm not quite done with the paper work." Molly points over her shoulder at the clip board. "Do you mind if I bring it up later? I can bring it when the official toxicology comes back."

Greg nods. "Yeah, fine. Thanks, Molly."

As Greg turns to leave, Molly clears her throat. "I, um..." Greg turns back to her. "I wanted to, to well..."

Greg raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"I just wanted to say sorry." Molly clasps her gloved hands together. "About your wife."

Greg nods. "Yeah, thanks." 

"Are you... you okay?"

Greg blows out a puff of air, feeling oddly calm. "Uh, yeah." He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "It was a long time coming."

"Really?"

Greg laughs once. “Yeah, just took me awhile to see that. Really, I knew it was over, just didn’t want to admit it. Holding on to hope.” 

Molly nods. “But now you can move on, right?”

"Supposedly. That's what they say at least," Greg murmurs, glancing around the morgue. 

"Sometimes you need something bad enough to push you out." Greg's jerks around and he stares at Molly. She smiles thinly. "You keep telling yourself 'this is all right' until you realize it hasn't been for a while, until something big enough knocks you to your senses, right?"

"I..."

"Straw that breaks the camel's back?" She laughs a bit awkwardly.

Greg smiles. "Yeah, I guess so."

"It's just... well, you can't keep clinging to something or someone because of time." She looks away for a moment. "Because you deserve something more."

She looks back at him and somehow Greg feels better than he has in weeks.

"Anyway, I know you'll be fine, Inspector," she adds as she pulls her plastic gloves off her hands.

Greg tilts his head. "You do?"

"You've handled Sherlock for more than five years."

Greg breaks into laugher, Molly following a moment later. He grins and shakes his head at her. "Thank you, Molly, really."

While many things can be said of Molly's occasional awkward conversation skills, her insight is more that even she probably knows.

Out in the hall, Greg stops before opening the door to the stairs. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and selects Mycroft's number into text:

_[3:21] I was wrong. I'm sorry._

\----------

It is only a few days after Greg spoke to Molly and texted Mycroft that the same woman who brought the rose gift walks through his office door. This time she wears a black dress and red heels, blackberry in one hand and white card in the other.

"Hello." He peers around her out into the hall just in case then back again. "No box this time?"

She smiles and holds up the card. "Just this."

"You're my only repeat courier." 

She cocks her head. "I am not a courier."

Greg's brain runs off with a variety of ideas but for some reason 'personal assassin' ranks highest on the list. "Then what are you?"

"Well, I have been called Anthea by a friend of yours, so how’s that?"

"Is Anthea a name or a profession?"

She just smiles and holds out the card. Greg reaches out and takes the card from her. Anthea backs up two steps but she does not leave. He glances up at her then looks down at the card. This one is actually sealed. Greg pulls his letter opener - Claire gave it to him one year - from his desk and slits the envelope open. He pulls out the card, the same 'MH,' and opens it.

_Would you accompany me to dinner tomorrow night, as a date?_

_-M. Holmes_

Greg closes the card and puts it down on his desk. Crossing his arms, he leans back in his chair and stares at the card. The way his heart beats and his arms tingle makes him feel fifteen years younger in a somewhat awkward way.

Anthea clears her throat and Greg looks up at her. "I'm to take back your reply."

"What, now?"

Anthea nods.

“Really?”

She only raises her eyebrows.

"I don't know if I can decide right now."

Anthea holds up a finger. "He thought you might say that." She reaches into the top of her dress and pulls out a smaller card.

"Keep a lot in there?"

She chuckles. "Take it."

He plucks the card from her hand which turns out to be a single piece of fine, white card stock with one word on the front:

_Please._

Greg stares at the card. He remembers months ago when Mycroft asked Greg to call him by his name, when Greg asked Mycroft to have coffee, when Mycroft called the other night and Greg hung up.

Anthea leans forward slightly. “Just why are you resisting?”

Greg purses his lips. He flips the card over, picks up a fine point sharpie from the mug on his desk then writes on the back of the card one word: 

_Yes._

He holds up the card to Anthea. She smiles, takes it with two fingers, then turns on her heel and walks swiftly from his office.

\----------

The next evening Greg leaves work at exactly five PM. He stares at his closet for several minutes and tells himself that Mycroft would never expect him to be as impeccably dressed as Mycroft always is. Greg owns exactly zero three piece suits. A regular suit will have to do; the only question is tie or no tie? Whenever he wears a tie it makes him feel like an admin copper which is not anyone’s idea of a fun date. A tie might be more formal but Greg has a small semblance of self-awareness which reminds him that he looks better when not wearing a tie. Gray suit and black shirt it is.

At seven fifteen Greg’s mobile vibrates showing a blocked number. When he answers, the voice on the other end only says, ‘your car has arrived.’ Downstairs, in front of the building of Greg’s flat, a car waits parked at the curb. The driver leans against the car but stands up straight once he sees Greg and opens the back door of the car.

Greg stares at him. “Are you serious?”

“Sir.” He nods toward the open door.

“All right.” Greg shrugs and climbs in.

Greg stares around the inside of the car, leather seats and more foot room than seems fair. He wonders if Mycroft has a garage somewhere filled with a dozen black cars ready for his disposal at any time. 

When the car stops again, Greg opens the door and steps out before the driver makes it around in time. The driver gives him a halfhearted glare then closes the door behind Greg. The establishment appears to be a French restaurant, dark wood on the outside with large windows. He walks inside and stops at the host podium. 

The woman smiles at him and cocks her head, “Greg Lestrade?”

“Yes?”

She indicates a staircase in the back left corner, “Second floor sir."

Greg weaves around a few occupied tables and walks back to the stairs, more dark wood, white table cloths, and some chandeliers which make Greg think of theaters. Up the stairs, the restaurant suddenly becomes quiet. Around the corner, the floor looks empty for a moment then Greg sees one table on the far side in front of the floor to ceiling windows with Mycroft seated at it. Greg smiles and watches Mycroft, one hand on the table, looking out the window, and legs crossed completely still. His suit is a three-piece black pinstripe with a white shirt underneath and a red tie. Greg can see the gold glint of a tie pin and a pocket watch chain near Mycroft’s hip. The scene looks like a page from GQ.

Greg licks his lip once, straightens his jacket, tugs his shirt cuffs down then walks forward across the empty floor. Mycroft turns his head when Greg is a few paces away. He moves to stand but Greg waves a hand at him. Mycroft drums his finger tips on the table once but stays seated. Greg stops right next to the table so Mycroft has to look up at him.

“You rented out the whole floor?”

Mycroft only smiles.

Greg nods, looks at the shinning chandeliers and diamond patterned carpet, then turns back to Mycroft. “Pulling out all the stops now?”

“I believe it never hurts to impress.”

“You already have.” Greg steps back and slides into his seat across from Mycroft. 

Mycroft glances across the restaurant and a waiter appears, menus and a bottle of white wine in hand. He hands a menu to each of them then puts the wine down on the table, label toward Mycroft. Mycroft touches the bottle then nods. The waiter pulls a corkscrew out of his pocket and opens the wine, pouring some into their glasses.

“Please take your time,” he says then takes the bottle and walks back across the floor.

Mycroft picks up his glass of wine and holds it out toward Greg. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“Well, you said please.”

Mycroft takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I did.”

Greg opens his menu, notices there are no prices beside any of the items. He stares at the page for a minute, classy font and a tint to the paper so it appears vintage. Greg glances over the top of his menu at Mycroft, back down at the page then closes the menu. 

Mycroft frowns. “Are the options not to your liking?”

“I’m pretty sure everything they serve here is amazing.” 

Mycroft opens his menu, eyes moving up and down the pages quickly. “But?”

Greg sighs. “Look, I want to apologize.”

Mycroft glances up again from his menu. “Apologize?”

“I feel I was leading you on when it came to all your gifts and then I was angry at you after everything with my wife when it wasn’t your fault and had nothing to do with you.” Greg touches the stem of his wine glass and twists it. Mycroft watches him silently. “So, I’m sorry.”

Mycroft purses his lips. “While you may consider your actions ‘leading,’ I would have to disagree as we are here now.” Mycroft circles a hand in the air indicating the restaurant around them. 

Greg chuckles. “True.”

“And if we are talking of errors, you could fault me for pursuing a married man.”

“Separated man.”

Mycroft smiles slowly. “Semantics.”

Greg smiles back at him. “I guess we’re even then.”

They pick up their wine glasses at the same time and drink. Greg normally sticks to beer but he likes this wine. He wonders, perhaps, if Mycroft knew his taste but that seems a bit too far into impossible or paranoid even for Mycroft. Greg puts his wine down and flips open his menu again. Half of the choices are in French and the descriptions only seem to partially elucidate what they are. He took French in secondary but hell if he remembers it. Something says fillet and that has to include beef so he wagers it’s a good bet.

Greg looks up at Mycroft, his eyes somewhere near the bottom of his menu. Greg closes his menu, picks up his wine and leans slightly back against his chair. Mycroft’s eyes tick up.

“You said to me a while back that I needed to give you the opportunity to get to know you better.”

Mycroft closes his menu. “Yes.”

“Well.”

“Well?”

“As you said, we’re here now.”

Mycroft folds his hands together then slides them apart again. He sits up straighter in his chair and touches his wine glass, though he does not pick it up. Greg takes a sip of his wine and waits. Mycroft clears his throat, looks out the window then turns back to Greg.

“I suppose you already know much of my time is spent with work.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“The price of the civil servant.”

“Something like that.” Greg tilts his head. "So?"

Abruptly, the waiter returns, halting the conversation. He takes their orders in such a swift and precise manner that Greg wonders if perhaps Mycroft trained him in the art of professionalism. He takes away their menus, adds more wine to their glasses then disappears again. Mycroft rubs a hand along the table cloth but does not say anything.

“So,” Greg continues instead, “we were talking about you?”

“I…” Mycroft smooths a hand over his tie and Greg wonders how much time Mycroft actually spends talking to people outside of work situations. “I confess, I am not sure what you would wish to know.”

Greg chuckles. “About you, what you enjoy, what you do outside of whatever mysterious office you have.”

Mycroft frowns. “I visit my club often.”

“Club?”

“The Diogenes.”

“Like a sports club?”

Mycroft laughs with obvious surprise and shakes his head. “Oh no. More a place to relax, read, a quiet place away from distraction.”

“Sounds a little Victorian.”

"Perhaps it is." Mycroft smiles. “It allows absolutely no talking inside the walls and I imagine the décor would inspire an idea of old fashioned tastes.”

Greg laughs. “And is that all?”

“What more would you like?”

Greg sighs and puts his wine down. “You’re somewhat resistant to talking about yourself, aren’t you?”

“I don’t…. hmm.” He smiles. “Perhaps.”

“Might stem from having Sherlock as your bother, all that talking he does?”

Mycroft laughs and smiles, quiet and maybe a little surprised with himself. “Childhood was an interesting experience, I will admit.”

“I think everyone’s is in some way. Try being the middle child.” Mycroft cocks his head and Greg realizes Mycroft has not, in fact, stalked all of his life and history. “I have an older brother and younger sister.”

Mycroft nods. “And they figure in your life in a positive way?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, quite a luxury.” Greg watches Mycroft’s face, sees him shrink for a moment before he snaps back to composed and present. He picks up his wine glass and sips some. “But your siblings are not your interests or activities outside work, at least not wholly.”

“I used to play rugby with some old uni friends once a month but it fell apart when two of my mates started having children. Takes up time…” Greg purses his lips and shrugs. “I like to cook.”

“Cook?” Mycroft says with surprise.

Greg nods. “I learned when I was younger, would try and make new things for David and Claire, usually burning something. I melted a pot on our stove once.” Mycroft chuckles. “Right through the bottom and we kept the blob of melted metal in the kitchen window for ages after. But I’ve kept it up. I would always cook for Anne or my mates. It’s just…” Greg glances out the window and smiles. “I find it calming, recipes to follow or to go with your instincts, to properly use smell and taste. I don't do it enough.”

“I bake on occasion.” 

Greg looks back. “Bake?”

Mycroft nods and clears his throat. “Sherlock preferred his chemistry set to the kitchen. Thus, the kitchen was mine. Baking was more to my temperament and preferences that other types of cooking. However, I have not baked in some time.”

“Still sounds like something in common.”

“Yes.”

“Well, if we ever make a meal together, I’ll handle the main course and you can take dessert.”

“We should.”

Greg picks up his wine again and wonders what Mycroft’s kitchen looks like. “So is that it? Work, club, and baking?”

“I paint.”

Greg blinks with surprise. “Paint?”

“As in with a brush and canvas.”

Greg snorts. “Thank you for the clarification.” Greg flicks his glass of wine so it makes a clinking noise. “Quite the renaissance man. You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“Will I?”

“Please?”

Mycroft purses his lips until it melts into a smile. He props an elbow on the table and rests his head on two fingers. “Maybe.”

Greg suspects not many people have cared or tried enough to get past Mycroft’s wall of three piece suits. Watching the changes in his smile from polite to real, Greg wants to slip right past that wall of propriety and see who Mycroft is underneath.

After dinner, they stand outside for one minute. Mycroft touches Greg’s hand and says, “good night,” before turning away. Greg watches Mycroft as he walks to his car, no umbrella today, and it is not until Greg no longer sees the car in the distance that he moves.

The same car which brought Greg to the restaurant waits to drive him home again. They make one quick stop along the way so Greg can run into a shop. Once they reach his building again, he hands the card he bought to the driver.

“Could you give this to him?” The driver glances at the card then takes it without comment. “Thanks.” Then Greg climbs out and back to his flat.

The light blue card, no picture or embossed letters on the front, reads:

_Thank you. I loved it. We should do it again._

_\- G. Lestrade_

\----------

Greg sits behind his desk, case file in hand, with Donovan sitting in a chair on the other side of his desk. His coffee has gone cold now after his drinking only half. 

“So the one witness, Brian, recanted.”

“Already?”

Sally shrugs. “Surprised he talked in the first place in that sort of neighborhood.”

Greg nods. “Yeah, try any pressure?”

“Please.”

Greg chuckles. “All right, have to cross our fingers for evidence coming up with something then. Any luck on the next of kin?”

“Nothing so far except for a brother who is serving five years.”

“For?”

“Drugs.”

Greg rubs his forehead. “Fabulous.”

Greg’s phone rings, making Sally jump in surprise. Putting down his pen, Greg picks up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Delivery for you sir.”

“Is it a box with a card?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

Greg taps his desk and sighs. “Send it up.” Then he hangs up the phone.

Sally crosses her arms. “You expecting something?”

“No, but lately that means nothing.”

“Your wife?”

Greg sighs. “If the delivery is paperwork then yeah.”

“If not?”

Before Greg can respond, a woman appears in his doorway holding what is definitely not paperwork but instead a vase with a bouquet of flowers.

“Damn!” Sally says.

“For Greg Lestrade?” The woman asks.

Greg waves at her and she walks over, putting the flowers on an empty corner of his desk. “Thank you.”

Sally stands up to inspect the white and purple array of flowers, buds, and leaves. Greg plucks the card off, however, before she gets to it. She stands up straight as the delivery girl leaves and eyes the card in his hand.

“Is this the same ‘someone else’ that was sending you boxes and coffees before?”

“I’ll send you my notes on the case file in a bit, Donovan.”

She frowns. “Flowers now?”

“Good bye, Donovan.”

She ‘hmms’ then turns and walks out of his office. Greg flips open the card,

_You are welcome._

_-M. Holmes_

Greg grins and sticks the card back into the flowers. He pulls out his mobile and selects Mycroft’s number. Mycroft answers after only one ring.

“Greg.”

“So, how do I send you things without having to rope one of your drivers into it?”

“What do you want to send me?”

“I couldn’t ruin the surprise.”

“Ah, so a theoretical question.”

“Are you not going to tell me? Not exactly fair, is it?”

“I did not say I would not tell you.”

Greg rocks his chair from side to side. “Well then?”

“If you insist.”

Suddenly, Greg’s mobile vibrates once. He pulls it away from his ear and sees that he has a text from Mycroft. It is an address. He puts the mobile back to his ear.

“Is this your office?”

“Seems only fair, does it not?”

Greg chuckles and touches a purple petal of one flower in the vase beside him. “Thank you.”

“Good day, Greg.” Then as though he wasn’t sure whether to say it or not, “it was good to hear your voice.”

\----------

The next time they go to dinner together, Greg picks the restaurant. The restaurant is in fact more like a pub and he ensures Mycroft has a beer instead of wine.

"A good beer never disappoints."

"I tend toward whiskey."

Greg chuckles. "That sounds right. I can see you with a cigar and tumbler sitting by a fire, top hat in the corner, tails hanging over a chair."

"Perhaps not the cigar."

"You own a top hat and tails?"

Mycroft sips his beer and smiles. "You'll have to find out."

Their date ends up cut a bit short, however, when Sherlock texts Greg and John texts Mycroft about the same case, a murderer at large in London, and, yes, Sherlock does need Lestrade right now and, sorry Mycroft, but Sherlock's probably about to break some laws, thought you'd want to know.

"This is going to be a recurring thing, isn't it?" Greg says as they both text back to Sherlock and John.

Mycroft sighs. "If so I may need you to find a reason to jail Sherlock."

"We can all have dreams."

When they get up from the table, money left behind, Mycroft puts his hand on the small of Greg's back as if Greg needs encouragement to walk forward. Mycroft waits with Greg while he hails a cab back to the Met. Mycroft's hand, never moving, burns a spot through Greg's jacket onto his skin that seems to last for hours later.

\----------

Greg meets Mycroft on a Wednesday afternoon at a café between their two offices. Mycroft insisted it needed to be a quick lunch as he had a flight to catch to, ‘well, let’s say somewhere east.’ They manage to get a table near a wall and stick to simple sandwiches. It gives Greg a small amount of amusement every time to see Mycroft eating something normal and not Zagat rated.

“I’ve decided,” Greg says as he fishes through his basket of chips for one of suitable size, “since you sent me so many gifts that were clearly too expensive –“

“Too expensive?”

“That I am going to send you the cheapest things I can find.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, sandwich frozen midair. “Oh?”

Greg nods and picks up his roast beef. “Yep, hideous things, like plastic cats or floral ties.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitches and he puts his sandwich half down. “Much can be said for a good floral tie.”

“Not if the fabric is something like 1970s couch or dreaded polyester.” 

Mycroft breaks and starts laughing. He puts a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. Greg notices Mycroft’s nose scrunches up a little right when he starts laughing. Greg needs to instate a new rule to make Mycroft laugh at least once every time they see each other.

“Well,” Mycroft says, “should you buy me such a tie, I promise to never wear it.”

Greg picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. “That is all I could hope for.” 

Pulling out his pocket watch, Mycroft clicks it open then makes a displeased face. Greg’s eyes flick to Mycroft’s watch then back to him.

“How long will you be gone?”

Mycroft looks up as he closes the watch. “It is undetermined as of now.”

“Days? Weeks?”

“Oh, surely not weeks.” He tilts his head. “Maybe one.”

Greg grins. “Good.” Mycroft gives him an odd look, as though he doesn’t quite believe Greg. “What?”

“You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”

“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”

Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”

Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”

“Ah.” Mycroft looks up again. 

“Are you going to call me at all from this place somewhere east?”

“No.”

“Worse for me.”

“Is this an aspect of your character you’ve been holding back?”

Greg frowns. “What?”

“Teasing.”

Greg laughs once. “Maybe, we’ll see.”

“Speaking of, it is time I was off.”

Instantly Greg's thoughts say, ‘no, stay.’ He breathes in slowly and wonders if he’s starting to fall hard or if the descent was already long begun without him noticing. “All right. I’ll walk out with you.”

They throw away the wrappings and remnants of their lunch before walking back out into the chill afternoon. Mycroft’s car waits at the curb, engine running.

“I don’t know where you’re going,” Greg says, “but I hope you’ll be safe.”

Mycroft smiles. “I would worry more for you staying here.”

Mycroft moves to turn away toward the car but Greg abruptly grips his hand. Mycroft turns back, closer just into Greg’s personal space. So Greg kisses him. Mycroft tenses in surprise but relaxes a moment later, kissing Greg back. With his lips on Mycroft’s, Greg decides he likes that Mycroft is a little taller than him. 

He pulls back, kisses Mycroft quickly once more. “Bye.”

Mycroft smiles, thumb rubbing the back of Greg’s hand. “Good bye.”

\----------

Greg, David, and Claire sit on the floor of Greg's flat surrounded by pieces of wood, screws, pegs, and an instruction packet that seems frighteningly long for just an entertainment center.

"Would we really call it an entertainment center?" David asks with his nose almost touching the paper. "It's only going to hold your TV and stereo."

"It has the shelves for DVDs and CDs too, David." Claire sticks two pegs into the end of the base piece. "Don't you think that counts?"

"But a center?" He pulls the instructions down from his face. "That makes it sound like there should be three different types of DVD players and two telly screens and something that spins."

Greg frowns and picks up a vertical piece to fit onto his side of the base. "You're reading too much into this. Plus, I have my turn table too which is something that spins."

"So vintage." Claire shoves a random piece of wood out of her way with her foot.

"Is this IKEA?" David mutters flipping the pages.

Claire and Greg glance at each other.

"You sure you should have asked him to come?" Claire asks.

"We're family bonding."

"Speaking of bonding." David presses the instruction pages between his hands. "What is going on with you and Mycroft?"

Greg grins automatically then coughs to cover his ridiculous face. Claire and David beam at him, clearly not believing his 'cover' for a second. They give each other a long look. 

Greg sighs. "What's the next part of the directions, David?"

"So, you are seeing this Mycroft?" Claire picks up her side piece and fits it on the pegs. "And is it now a thing?"

"Oh, it is a thing." David grins and flashes a page of the instructions at them. "Put the B piece on the C piece."

Claire steals the instructions from David while still looking at Greg over the partially assembled furniture. “You haven’t dated a guy in a long time.”

“I’ve been married.”

“What kind of excuse is that?” David snaps with mock anger.

“When was the last one?” Claire asks David.

“Before Anne.”

“Obviously.”

“And before Jackie.”

“Oh, I remember Jackie!” Claire laughs. “That hair.”

Greg puts a hand over his eyes. “Oh God.”

“It was Shawn.” David flutters his eyelashes at Greg. “With the dreamy blue eyes.”

Greg rolls his eyes at David, “All right, all right.” Then he picks up two screws and tosses two more to Claire. “Also, I wouldn’t necessarily say that we’re ‘dating.’”

“No?” Claire asks, catching the screws.

"We haven't talked about it." Greg nods at Claire and they turn their pieces so they can add the screws to the ends to reinforce the pegs.

"Is that a thing people still need to do?" David asks and steals the directions back from by Claire’s hip. "Especially when they're pushing 50?"

"I'm not pushing it."

"You're reaching."

"Says the man who is forty-nine."

David frowns. "I am all too aware of that."

"Dear God," Claire groans, "at this rate this thing won't be put together by morning!"

David raises his eyebrows. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

"Yes, home with my children and husband."

"Psh!"

"I can finish this if you guys need to leave," Greg offers.

Claire narrows her eyes at him. "I think maybe you just want to get out of talking about your Mycroft developments."

"Plus, these instructions say you need two people," David adds, pointing at the cover.

Greg stares at David then looks back at Claire. "There are no developments."

"None?" She sticks her screw driver into place and turns. "Nothing at all?"

"They went on at least one date. Posh restaurant. Didn't you guys get lunch a few times too? And there was flowers." David flips a page in the instructions. "Are you done screwing?"

Claire raises her eyebrows. "And he says no developments? I call those developments."

"He dragged it out of me. I swear he's a stalker."

David nods. "I am trying to escape my children."

"Hmm." Claire stands up and puts the screwdriver in the tool box. "I think we need beer and then I want to hear about this date, the multiple dates. Those of us still married have to live vicariously through you, Greg."

“Joy to me,” Greg mutters.

Once Claire walks out into the kitchen, David puts down the instruction packet and turns to Greg. "So, you do like him?"

Greg smiles. "Yeah, I think I do."

\----------

Mycroft and Greg stand in Trafalgar Square around eight PM after Greg finally escaped from work. Greg watches the colors change on one fountain, the yellow looking more like white and the blue like sea.

“You know the last time I was here I don’t think they had those.” Greg points at the water then turns to Mycroft. “In fact, not sure the last time I was here at all.”

Mycroft chuckles. “As it is usually awash with tourists, I find it best to avoid this area.”

Greg smirks. “But it is so rich with history.”

“Yes, many a statue with plaques for visitors to read and promptly forget.”

“Not one for the touristy bits, are you?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I know London, I do not need to visit those areas which tourists frequent to see it.”

“So what you’re saying is, you prefer the CCTV view?”

Mycroft laughs once and brushes his fingers briefly over the front of Greg’s jacket. He shakes his head at Greg but does not ‘confirm or deny.’ They look up at the fountain, the LED lights change to purple and blue again. A child attempts to climb up onto the edge of the fountain before his mother grabs him around the middle and pulls him back.

“I trust your work was not too trying today?” Mycroft asks.

“Don’t you already know?”

“I do not stalk your every move, Greg.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “I have a number of gifts and cards that would beg to differ on that count.” Mycroft frowns so Greg nudges him with his shoulder. “My day was fine, mostly paperwork.”

“That I certainly understand.”

They walk side by side away from the fountain, avoiding various clusters of people either taking photographs or staring at maps. There appears to be an event going on over at the National Gallery as a red carpet snakes up the center steps with various people in black tie and diamonds walking up.

“Benefit?” Greg asks.

“One I am blissfully not involved with in any way.”

Greg chuckles. “Me either.”

They turn around the fountain, fortunately not many pigeons anymore to block their way, toward Nelson’s Column. Mycroft swings his umbrella just a little in his far arm, occasionally tapping it on the street. Their hands brush now and then as they walk. Greg thinks corny things about holding Mycroft’s hand and has to remind himself that he is in fact forty-seven years old. Another part asks him who puts an age limit on affection?

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we a couple now?”

Mycroft stops walking and stares at Greg. “Are you asking me to define our relationship?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft opens his mouth then quickly closes it again. He bites his lip briefly then clears his throat. “What would you wish it to be?”

“I am the one that asked if we are a couple or not.”

“Which implies that is what you would wish to be?”

Greg smiles. “Yes, Mycroft. When I am talking to my sister and she asks, I want to be able to say that I am actually seeing you.”

Mycroft taps his umbrella on the ground once then reaches out and touches Greg’s hair above his forehead. “Do you know how lovely your hair is?”

Greg blinks. “What?”

His fingers brush slowly back through Greg’s hair until his hand nearly cups Greg’s cheek. “Silver, lush. It is lovely.” Then his thumb drags along the length of Greg’s hair line until he pulls his hand away. 

Greg has to swallow once before he speaks. “Is that how you say yes?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“Yes?”

Mycroft smiles. “Yes.”

Greg glances to the side, at the tall column and guarding stone lions. He looks back to Mycroft and thinks if Mycroft were the tower, high above them all, then maybe Greg would be the lion, guarding at the base.

“Okay.” Greg touches Mycroft’s empty hand, his smooth nails and curve of bone. He touches Mycroft’s finger tips and Mycroft’s fingers curl around Greg's. “Good.”

Greg steps forward and kisses Mycroft once. He pulls back, nose still touching Mycroft’s. He feels Mycroft start to smile then Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand and kisses him again, faint stars above their heads and a city full of lights around them.

\----------

Sherlock paces back and forth in Greg’s office, voice going a mile a minute. Donovan keeps trying to make him stop walking, slow down, and just how are you making these jumps? John pipes up every now and then with a clarification or a well-placed ‘fantastic.’ Greg sits at his desk just watching the drama for the moment. He knows that Sherlock will stop eventually giving him the opportunity to say, ‘so what does it all mean then?’ or something of the like. Sherlock will probably give him that ‘idiot’ stare but Greg cares not that much at all. The murder case has been languishing for over a week and the pressure to ‘close’ has been high. If Sherlock can solve it, Greg and the victim’s family will not care who it was or exactly how they leapt to the right answer.

“John!” Sherlock suddenly stops walking and points at the door. “Mobile, out on the desk.”

John stares. “What?”

“Mine, by your coffee, get it.”

John groans and walks out without another protest. Donovan rolls her eyes at Sherlock. “Really?”

“Sally, get me the last witness statement.”

She glares very hard at the side of Sherlock’s head then looks at Greg. He mouths ‘please?’ She sighs heavily and stomps out the door.

“I take it you’ve got something?” Greg asks.

Sherlock turns and flashes his ‘I am so brilliant’ grin. “Of course, weren’t you listening?”

“I was waiting for the summary.”

“As usual.”

Greg bites his lip and stands from his desk. “Look, Sherlock, I should tell you something.”

“Is it related to the case?”

Greg frowns. “No.”

Sherlock waves a hand, “Not interested.”

“Sherlock?” John walks in the door and hands Sherlock his mobile. “Use your pockets, eh? You have about a dozen with your coat.”

“I do use them.” Sherlock peers around John. “Where is Donovan?”

“Getting coffee,” John answers.

“What?” Sherlock and Greg say together.

John’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Your staff needs to focus on their jobs more than their caffeine intake,” Sherlock snaps at Greg. “Perhaps you would be able to solve cases then.”

“Oi, you don’t need to –“

“Not again you two!” John interjects. “Relax, I’ll get her.”

John walks out of Greg’s office again, muttering something under his breath about ‘absolute children’ and ‘bloody insanity.’ Greg turns to Sherlock to see the man already clicking away on his mobile.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm.”

“I mentioned I needed to tell you something?”

“And I mentioned my lack of interest.”

Greg sighs. “Well, I’m telling you anyway. I’m seeing your brother.”

“I know.”

“Seeing as in – wait, you know?”

Sherlock looks up. “Of course.”

Greg chuckles. “Should I even ask how or when you realized this?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Several months ago the smell of your coffee changed and was remarkably familiar to a favorite brand of Mycroft’s. It was not difficult to see the signs beyond that.” 

"Signs?"

Sherlock points to Greg’s coat on its hook behind his office door.

“Ah.”

Sherlock drops his hands and tilts his head. “I would suggest you be careful but perhaps you already know that.”

Greg breathes slowly through his nose and crosses his arm. “Look, Sherlock, he may be your brother but –“

“No need for the ruffled feathers, Lestrade.” Sherlock pulls his mobile up, clicks it twice more, and then slips it into his pocket coat. “I think you could be very good for him.”

Greg’s mouth drops open. Before he can speak again John appears in his doorway.

“Hey, Donovan gave me this and…” He looks back and forth between them, file folder in hand. “What’s going on? Sherlock?”

Sherlock plucks the file from John’s hand. “We are going to interrogate this witness.”

“We are?”

Sherlock turns to Greg again. “Perhaps you can bring him down off that ‘queen and country’ horse of his a bit, relax those tight suits.”

Greg can’t stop a laugh and he shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”

Sherlock just smiles.

John clears his throat. “Um, what now?”

Sherlock spins around and grabs John by the shoulder. “Come, John.”

\----------

Greg sits on his couch, Friday night, DVD player fighting with him so he's stuck with the telly but he really would prefer to avoid the news. He was interviewed yesterday unexpectedly at a crime scene, so, of course, he said something stupid that he has seen replayed at least three times since then on various TV channels. He’ll probably have to do another interview to smooth over his own stupid mouth.

Greg rubs his forehead and takes another bite of his chicken lo mein. “Should just watch Miss Marple…”

The entertainment center, as Claire decided it could be called, looks very nice against the wall. His stereo, TV, turn table, CDs and DVDs all fit nicely and look very organized now. If he tries hard enough he can probably keep it looking just perfect; though the alphabetization that David insisted upon will not last. Greg turns off his TV, just a repeat of Eastenders playing, and reaches for the book Mycroft gave him on the coffee table. He really did mean to read it but he forgot about it, then it was covered by a newspaper, then it fell under the table for a bit too.

However, Greg’s mobile vibrates next to the book just as Greg touches it. Greg ‘hmms’ and picks up his mobile instead. It is Mycroft:

_[9:33] I saw your interview of yesterday. Poetic._

Greg double clicks the contact and waits as the phone rings.

“Greg.”

“You had to be sassy?”

Mycroft chuckles. “Your use of the word ‘chav’ was simply endearing. And the way you so nearly said fuck three times gave me a desire to applaud.”

Greg sighs. “Thank you.”

“I am sure it is on youtube by now. I could save it for all posterity.”

“Since you’d need youtube for that.” 

Mycroft ‘tsk tsks’ but says no more. Greg imagines a wicked grin on the man’s face. He wishes he was wherever Mycroft is to kiss it off.

“What are you doing?” Greg asks.

“Over viewing strategy proposals for diffusing an internal Labour Party dispute.”

Greg sits up straighter. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You actually answered.”

“What did you expect?”

Greg blows out a puff of air and shifts the mobile to his other ear. “I don’t know, something like ‘matters of import?’”

Mycroft chuckles. “The same.”

Greg shifts around so he lays length wise on his couch. He puts his arm behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. He can hear a faint clicking in the background through the phone, probably Mycroft’s fingers on computer keys. 

Greg chews the edge of his lip. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why me?”

He hears the clicking stop. “Pardon?”

“In the five years, I guess six now, I have known your brother I saw you a handful of times. I never got any indication you were attached to anyone or even trying to be. You were always work and Sherlock. Obviously I didn’t know anything about your personal life then but… well, you’ve known me the same amount of time. So why now? Why me?”

“Why not you?” he clears his throat. “We know each other better now..."

“No.” Greg points at the air. “That’s not it. You started all of this before knowing me any better at all.”

Mycroft sighs.

“Well?”

“I… hmmm.” Mycroft is silent for a moment and Greg imagines he has that ‘don’t reveal classified information’ expression on his face. “Though it behooves me to admit it, it is because of Sherlock.”

Greg frowns. “What?”

“My brother has always been the terror he is. Always the same arrogance and self-assured righteousness, that is until he met John. Now, well, he still retains all that but he… he is better. Sherlock found the perfect, and perhaps only, friend in John who could bring out what most of us felt he did not have inside. Sherlock now has moments of restraint, of reality, of actual care. John has made him a better man.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“I thought you could do the same for me.”

Greg breathes in and forgets to breathe out.

Mycroft sighs. “I do not equate myself with Sherlock in terms of complete lack of social normities but I am also aware of my personal defects and detachment from much of human interaction.”

“And?” Greg whispers.

“I have always found you appealing, Greg, but it has been until recently I felt it worth my effort and time to attempt to change our surface, casual acquaintance.” Mycroft makes a small pleased sound. “You are a good man, Greg. You are the kind of man who… Well, one wants to be better for you.”

Greg laughs once quietly. “Ah.”

“I thought you could be someone who could make me… different. I thought if my younger, insufferable brother could actually make such a connection then… Well, then I should try.”

The other end of the phone falls silent. Greg remembers to breathe in and out, his eyes still on his plain white ceiling.

“And,” Mycroft says, “I have desired to kiss you for a rather extended period of time.”

Greg sits up. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Come over."


	4. Truly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greg chuckles and slips his hands into his pockets. "I am happy too, Mycroft."_
> 
>  
> 
> _Mycroft smiles as he dips his head, "Happy, yes."_
> 
> _Greg watches Mycroft, his eyes just high enough to still see Greg, his suit back in place as if nothing had happened moments earlier. Greg wants to sit and watch Mycroft simply move all day, calculation and grace and a heart he tries to conceal._

Elbow deep in witness statements from a recent bar fight turned into murder, Greg hears a tap at his office door. He looks up to see the handle of an umbrella.

"Hello, Mycroft."

Mycroft steps through the door, coffee cup in his other hand. "Hello, Greg."

"You remember you bought me that press, right?"

"Do you use it?"

Greg shrugs. "Sometimes."

"Rarely."

"Sometimes."

"In either case, variety in your coffee drinking is not a negative." He steps over to the desk and holds out the tall paper cup.

Greg reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing Mycroft's. Mycroft smiles then turns and walks back over to the door, closing it and leaning his umbrella against the wall in the corner. Greg raises his eyebrows but Mycroft only sits down in the chair across from Greg's desk.

"So?" Greg asks. "Have you just come to watch me drink the coffee you brought?"

"Perhaps." Greg cocks his head at Mycroft. Mycroft crosses his legs and taps two fingers on his knee. "I have a meeting to attend in another part of town and thought I should stop along the way to see you."

"Should?"

"Could."

Greg smiles. "I have no problem with that, thank you." He sips his coffee and sighs happily. "Especially because you always bring the best coffee."

"Nothing less for you, dear."

Greg flushes instantly and takes another sip of his coffee to hide it as much as he can. Mycroft has never called him anything like 'dear' before. Mycroft must notice this too as he tenses up, opens his mouth but closes it again without saying anything. They stare at each other until Greg chuckles quietly and Mycroft smiles, small and maybe a touch embarrassed.

Greg sips the coffee again. "Well..."

"Yes," Mycroft whispers.

"Thank you." Greg holds up the coffee.

"I am glad you like it." Mycroft pulls out his pocket watch, frowning at the face. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay to watch you drink the whole thing."

"You really came here just for those two minutes?"

"As you see, Greg."

"Some might call that romantic."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "Some might but, as I said, I must go."

"Meeting?"

"Yes, a plan to set in motion." Mycroft points at Greg's desk. "I hope the coffee helps you through the mountain of paperwork." Then he turns toward the door.

"Wait." Greg puts his coffee down then stands and walks over to Mycroft at the door. He steps into Mycroft's space and kisses him. "Thank you."

"You already said that," Mycroft replies quietly, his hand ghosting over Greg's wrist.

"I know."

"Is it entirely appropriate for you to be kissing me in your office?" Mycroft asks.

"Good thing my blinds are closed today."

"Very." Mycroft kisses Greg twice then leans back. "Unfortunately, you will have to free me."

"I don't know about that."

Mycroft's lips purse and he appears to be fighting a grin. Greg counts a point to himself and grips Mycroft's fingers.

"Before you go, I was thinking. Maybe we should go on holiday?"

"Holiday?"

"Yeah. I have some time coming, we could get away and actually spend time together not just between work or over meals."

"We spend time beyond -"

"You know what I mean."

Mycroft stares at him, face scrunched into not quite a frown but surely puzzled. 

Greg scratches his head and chuckles. "You don't take time off much, do you?"

"No."

Greg laughs again and steps back once from Mycroft, letting his hand go. "Well, think about it, all right? I imagine you could look wonderful on a beach."

This time Mycroft flushes, just a little, and glances at the floor. He looks up and smiles. "I imagine you could too. I will have to find the time." Then he opens the door, umbrella back in back in hand, and walks out.

\----------

Greg and Mycroft do, in fact, go on holiday together though it takes a few more wheedles and well placed kisses for Greg to convince Mycroft to leave cold London. Greg suggests France, "maybe down to Provence, good wine?" while Mycroft votes for Crete, "home to Minoan, the oldest form of civilization in Europe." They compromise on Italy.

Mycroft rents them a house in lower Tuscany a couple hours from Florence. Greg privately wonders if Mycroft heard of "Under the Tuscan Sun" and assumed film meant a 'normal' connection. They do touristy things, hitting every landmark in Florence from The Duomo, all beautiful black and white stone rising in architectural glory above their heads, to The Uffizi gallery holding works of art Greg has only seen in text books. Mycroft writes notes in a small leather bound book while Greg takes photos, a few surreptitiously snapped of Mycroft when he is not looking. It is not until day three of Florence sightseeing, the two of them standing on the Ponte Vecchio and Mycroft talking about Monument Men from World War II, that Greg has to ask.

"Do you actually know how to be on holiday?"

Mycroft stares at Greg, his sentence about the bombing of Nazi railways in Florence cut off, and frowns. "We are on holiday right now."

"Yes, we certainly are but you seem to think we're on some sort of intelligence seeking trip."

Mycroft shakes his head. "You would be surprised at the types of information which can later prove valuable."

Greg chuckles. "Sure, Mycroft, except that you already seem to know everything you would hope to learn here."

"There is always more to learn, Greg."

"But that's not all holidays are about. You are supposed to get away from stress and relax. It's not about how many historical notes you can write in your book or the number of attractions you hit."

"There is more than one way to go on holiday, Greg," Mycroft snaps.

Greg rubs his forehead and sighs. "I'm not saying you can't enjoy the art galleries but enjoy a long dinner or day by the pool too."

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Come on, I know you know how to relax. I’ve seen you do it. You just need to turn off the government brain.”

Mycroft purses his lips and gazes out over the river, only a few tourists and more locals walking behind them. Mycroft presses his notebook between his hands, finger tips tapping just slightly. Greg inches closer and touches Mycroft's back.

"And maybe I need a few days which are just for relaxing, all right?"

Mycroft turns back to Greg and smiles. "I suppose I can manage that."

The house Mycroft rented is two floors with more rooms than two people could possibly need. The general construction and decorating theme of the villa is that of wood floors and dark furniture, little touches all over to suggest this place has been lived in, and sand colored stone on the outside. The kitchen has blue porcelain tiles in the walls, copper pots hanging over the stove and two steps down so the ceiling rises high above Greg's head. The sun shines through the three windows and reflects off the copper sending little fairy spots around the room shifting throughout the day but never quite disappearing. He imagines drying herbs in the windows, the door to the back porch open so the smell of his cooking wafts out over the rolling hills and trees beyond. Greg wants to cook in it every day. He thinks he could stay here with the smell of old sunflowers in the distance, overlarge flower pots dotting the outside of the house, Cyprus trees along their loose stone drive and a view of green in early March, with the mists hanging low each morning. The air is cool and when ever Greg breathes he forgets the grit and crowds and noise of chilly London, nothing but silence and calm here.

Mycroft wraps one arm around Greg's waist, watches as Greg chops asparagus. "Are you planning to turn into an Italian cook here? I can tell you that would take a good deal of work."

Greg chuckles. "Only temporarily and I doubt you'll complain when I'm done this."

Mycroft wanders the rooms of the house, reading the edge of every book and touching every door knob. Greg sits and watches him circle, his Holmes brain running fast. Greg wonders if, like Sherlock, Mycroft now knows everything about the people who own the house and maybe even past guests. 

"Strange how the house is never rented in April." Mycroft taps a side table underneath a window. "Should be a busy month for early tourists."

"You sound like your brother."

"Perhaps he sounds like me."

Mycroft stands with light behind him, dress trousers and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow, no vest or jacket or umbrella prop. Greg takes Mycroft's hand, pulls him away from his prying, and leads him to a bedroom on the first floor, one of about eight in the whole house if one counts the small servant bedroom off the kitchen. He pulls Mycroft down on top of him, back on the bed, kissing his lips and neck. Greg removes shirt buttons and kisses lazily along Mycroft's collar bone as Mycroft makes quick work of trousers and pants.

"Must you be so slow?"

"Remember I said something about relaxing?"

Mycroft grips Greg's chin and kisses his lips, whispering against them. "I am quite relaxed."

Afternoon sunlight filters through the window as they roll on the bed, less clothing and Mycroft's hands on Greg's inner thighs. Greg fists his hands into sheets as Mycroft thrusts and they gasp in time, feeling nothing but heat and now and Mycroft all around him.

"Do you intend for us to have sex in every bedroom of this house?" Mycroft asks as he lies on his back, shirt barely still over his shoulders.

"Yes."

The nearest town from their house is just a ten minute drive. The roads are narrow, most still cobblestone or something else not exactly concrete. When not taking the long drive to Florence, they stop in town, Greg buys another new herb or Mycroft eyes the fresh pies.

"You could always show me those baking skills you claimed to have some time," Greg says as he stands next to Mycroft at the baker window.

"I said I enjoy baking. I did not claim skill."

"Are you telling me you are bad at it?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Enigma man."

Mycroft turns to Greg, hands clasped behind his back. "Perhaps I do not wish to disappoint you."

Greg grins. "Never know until you try."

Mycroft sighs. "Sometimes you are infuriating."

They take tea most afternoons, do dinners at night. Though they are only on holiday for two weeks, it feels like much longer. Greg wonders if he's stuck in a showing of "Room with a View" or some other expatriate drama without knowing it.

Mycroft speaks with the shop owners. "Due baguette e un po 'di lavanda, per favore."

"Italian, eh? Doubt that was from school."

"It helps with the profession," Mycroft says to Greg then turns to the woman behind the counter as she hands Mycroft his baguettes and lavender. "Grazie."

"Just how many languages do you speak?"

Mycroft cocks his head. "No need to keep count."

"But I think you do."

Mycroft only smiles.

They walk through the small streets, sun turning Greg's skin to a brown he thought impossible. Perhaps he does not spend enough time in actual sunlight. They round corners and climb hills, learning each street of the little town before they are forced to leave and return to real life. Greg counts doors, estimates people, and imagines life in a place as small and quiet at this. London may as well be another planet.

"Can we stay?" Greg asks as they walk back to the car.

Mycroft looks at him incredulously. "Here?"

"Aren't you enjoying it?"

"Of course, Greg, but, as you said, it is only a holiday."

Greg nods. "Still, what if this was life, shops and lavender and tea on the back porch and sex in every room?"

"Hmm." Mycroft looks Greg up and down slowly. "As tempting as you make country life sound, I would surely die of the tedium within a matter of weeks." Mycroft unlocks the car then hands Greg the keys. "And, could you really leave London?"

"Do you think I'd miss it?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Greg cracks. "Of course, but you can see the charm here. Don't deny it."

"I shall not but half the charm is you."

As they drive over the unpaved street, green fields on either side of them, Greg suddenly starts laughing. Mycroft stares at him from the passenger seat. Greg glances at him then shakes his head.

"Care to share?" Mycroft says.

"I just realized," Greg explains, "we never made it to a beach."

\----------

Only a day after they return from holiday, Mycroft calls Greg and requests Greg meet him at his office. Greg has to admit he is intrigued based on the simple fact that he will finally see Mycroft's office. It turns out to be far more drab and normal than he expected.

"This is it?" Greg says, waving a hand around the room. 

Mycroft frowns from behind his desk. "What did you expect? A Bond film set?"

"Maybe."

"That is my other office."

Greg smiles. "Ah ha, he jokes."

"Only once." Mycroft stands up. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor? What kind?"

"The Sherlock kind."

Greg sighs and crosses his arms. He closes his eyes, rubs his forehead once then nods. "All right, what has he done now?"

"Doing."

Greg opens his eyes. "Doing?"

"He is currently involved in an investigation in Dartmoor."

"Dartmoor!"

Mycroft clears his throat. "Yes, Dartmoor. He is -"

"Please tell me you are not asking me to take a four hour drive to Dartmoor to babysit your little brother."

Mycroft clears his throat again and glances at the windows of his office. "I would not call it 'babysit.'"

Greg stares at the side of Mycroft's face, tension lines tight around the edges of his forehead. Greg sighs. "All right, all right, tell me more."

"It appears he is poking around a classified government facility."

"There is a classified government facility in Dartmoor?"

Mycroft turns back to Greg and smiles. "You would be surprised at the number of unexpected locations one can find such things."

"Not at this rate I won't be."

"Regardless, I feel it would be beneficial to have someone there to ensure he does not turn the entire Baskerville facility upside down or cause too much undue commotion."

"Uh huh, and your solution is me?"

"He trusts you well enough and I most certainly do."

Greg smiles. "I'll take that compliment."

"Do. And I would request you leave as soon as possible."

"As soon as?"

Mycroft tilts his head. "I would say now but I imagine you understand my meaning."

Greg sighs again. "Do you send all your boyfriends on missions to save your brother and/or government outposts?"

Mycroft flushes a touch and Greg bets the word 'boyfriend' distracted Mycroft for at least five seconds which is almost reward enough to him for going to Dartmoor. Mycroft touches the buttons on his waistcoat then backs up a few steps. He turns to his desk and picks up a small box.

"You should take this with you." He hands Greg the box.

The box is heavy and before Greg even opens it he knows what it is. Inside the box is a Glock 17, the bottom and grip are black while the slide is a stainless steel. Greg looks up again and closes the box.

"You do know that private ownership of handguns is illegal in England?"

"Well, you are a member of law enforcement."

"Even for me."

Mycroft purses his lips. "Don't let any police officers see you with it then."

Greg shakes his head and opens the box again. He pulls out the Glock and puts it into an inner pocket of his coat, handing the empty box back to Mycroft. "I am going to get you back for this."

Mycroft smiles. "I look forward to it."

\----------

Greg and Claire pull up to the curb in front of Greg's old house. The small lawn looks recently mowed and Greg sees some new bushes in the front garden. There are no flowers yet but Greg can see some buds and fresh green of some coming soon. Claire puts the car into park and shuts of the engine. 

"Ready?" Claire asks.

Greg looks over at her and nods. They open their car doors and step out onto the sidewalk. Up the front walkway, Greg knocks on the door then takes a step back. He hasn't seen Anne in person since their initial meeting with the divorce solicitors. Since then it has only been paperwork passed back and forth. Perhaps Greg could have come when she was out but that seems a bit childish now.

The door opens and Anne stands on the other side. Her hair falls just below her ears, a red shirt Greg does not recognize, and a black pencil skirt all leading down to bare feet. "Hi."

"You cut your hair," Greg blurts out.

Anne laughs and grips a clump in one hand. "Oh, yeah, a few weeks ago."

"It’s... different."

Claire snorts quietly then clears her throat to cover it up.

Anne chuckles again. "Yeah, I knew you wouldn't like it."

"Is that why you did it?"

Anne shakes her head. "No, just... wanted a change."

"Right. So..." Greg glances past Anne into the house then back to her. "May we come in?"

Anne steps out of the door way and holds out a hand. "Sure."

They walk inside then stop just before the stairs, Anne closing the door behind them. Though it has only been a few months since Greg was last here, the house seems somewhat foreign to him now. The walls are nearly bare, all of the photos gone. Maybe Greg should be insulted but he would have probably done the same. The living room is rearranged with the couch against the wall under the front windows and some new chairs. The coffee table is gone completely. Against one wall is a long table with what appears to be fishing line, seeds, some type of paper and a few other things Greg cannot identify from here. He decides not to ask.

"Good to see you again, Claire," Anne says.

Claire nods. "Remodeling?"

Anne blows out a breath of air. "Sort of, I... I got on a kick and just..." She glances at Greg then back to Claire. "I wanted things to be different."

Anne and Greg make eye contact again. He cannot tell why but decides he does not actually hate her after all.

"So, your things?"

"Yeah."

They walk in the opposite direction from the living room into the dining room. A pair of boxes sit on one end of the long table. Greg opens the first one, some books from university inside, a pair of football shoes, what appears to be a very sad tie. 

Greg pulls out one book and holds it up. "I thought this was yours?"

Anne shakes her head. "My _Wuthering Heights_ is upstairs. I found this one in the basement."

Greg turns it back around and stares at the front. "Huh. Some class I expect." He looks at Anne again. "There notes inside?"

"I found a few 'fuck offs' written in the margins."

Claire giggles and Greg shakes his head. "Somewhere around fifth year then."

"Is this it?" Claire asks, gesturing at the boxes.

Anne nods. "Yeah, looks like you were pretty thorough the first time, Greg."

"Well, when your wife gives you the final boot that's what you do." Greg smiles. "Don't really want to have to come back soon."

"Nice phrasing," Anne says sarcastically.

"I'd say it fits."

"Would you rather I'd given you a kick?"

"Are you two about to start a big fight?" Claire asks abruptly. "Because I can pretend to leave then listen from the stairs if you need."

Anne cracks up while Greg just shoots Claire a look. Claire grins and mouths 'what?' at Greg, an overly innocent look on her face. Greg shakes his head but grins just the same. Greg looks at Anne again, still giggling slightly. She glances at him then puts a hand over her mouth. Claire turns her head back and forth between them.

"All right, how about I take this box to the car and then you can join me, Greg, with the other one?" She picks up the unopened box and nods at Anne. "Lovely to see you. Don't you two chat for too long or I'm driving off."

"Got it," Greg assures her.

Claire turns and walks back into the hall then out the front door. Greg looks back at the open box and puts the book inside again. He crisscrosses the flaps together, closing the box. Then he looks up at Anne again. She tugs on the end of her hair then drops her arms to her sides. Greg rocks back on his heels once but does not pick up the box yet.

"So, you still seeing that teacher?"

"Oh," Anne rubs her hands together, "No, actually. Turned out to not be a good fit."

"No?"

She shrugs. "It's fine. Means I can set myself right again."

"Yeah." Greg nods then narrows his eyes. "You're not... you don't want us to..."

"Oh!" Anne waves her hands. "No, no, I didn't mean that, uh... no, not us or anything. I just, I think I need some time to just be alone, you know?"

Greg nods. "After so many years of bondage."

Anne rolls her eyes. "Really, Greg."

"Sorry. I... anyway, thanks for this." Greg points at the box. "Always good to have more junk, right?"

"Don't worry, I still have plenty of my own."

"Oh, I remember."

"Greg, I..." She breathes in and looks away. "This is better, isn't it?" Then she looks at him again. "I'm happy."

Greg smiles. "Yeah, I am too."

"Good, means we made the right decision."

Greg considers being cutting and saying 'you made the decision' but decides what is the point? Instead he just nods and slips his hands in his pockets, mobile warm against his right hand. Anne searches his face for a moment, her finger tips just touching the dining room table. Suddenly, she breathes in sharply. Greg frowns.

"You're seeing someone," she says quietly.

Greg's hand clasps reflexively around his mobile then he lets go and pulls his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms. "What makes you say that?"

"Ah." She breathes out slowly and touches her lips. "You really are."

"And what if I am?"

"You can, obviously... ha." She laughs once breathlessly. "It's just... I didn't realize what that would feel like."

"Didn't you think I'd move on too?"

"Well, you were always the slower one."

Greg smiles. "You mean how it took me six months to even ask you on a date?"

"And then I had to ask you on the next two after that." She shakes her head. "You were more timid then."

Greg chuckles. "Girl going for her doctorate can do that."

"And yet you were a copper."

"Barely. And everyone knows women are far more frightening than criminals."

"We can be." Greg and Anne smile at each other, the conversation more civil and real than one they've maybe had in years. "Does she make you happy?" Anne asks. "The person you're seeing?"

"He does so far," Greg says.

Anne smiles, does not bat an eye, and nods twice. "Well, I hope it stays that way." She steps forward and brushes a hand over his hair once. "Good luck, Greg."

Greg steps back then picks up the box. "You too, Anne."

Then he turns and walks back to the front door. He walks out then down the path a few steps before Anne calls to him.

"Oh, Greg!" Greg looks back at her over his shoulder. "Did you happen to take the Sense and Sensibility DVD?"

Greg stares at her for two beats. "No."

\----------

John walks through Greg's office door just as Greg is standing up to sneak out and get a coffee for twenty minutes so Donovan will stop badgering him about warrants for the Miller case. John stops three steps in and clamps his hand on the edge of the door. 

"John?"

"Hey."

Greg frowns. "You, uh, all right?"

"Yeah." John nods, lets go of the door and points over his shoulder. "Case, Sherlock wanted to borrow one of your PCs."

"Borrow?"

"Yeah, it's a gambit, the look and then the feint."

Greg blinks slowly. "What are you talking about?"

John shakes his head. "Never mind, that's not really the point. I just wanted to, hmm." He touches a finger to his lips then closes Greg's door. "Wanted to talk to you, actually."

Greg raises his eyebrows. "You're closing my door?"

"Yeah."

"Oh boy." Greg sits down. "What has Sherlock done now?"

John shakes his head and steps around to the chair in front of Greg's desk. "Nope, not Sherlock."

"No?"

"No, you."

"Me?"

John sits with a nod of his head. "You."

Greg crosses his legs and can say with ninety-five percent certainty what it is John is about to bring up. "Alright then, what is it?"

"You're seeing Mycroft?" 

Greg huffs. "I take it Sherlock said something?"

"A bit."

"Oh?"

John shakes his head and waves a hand. "So, yes, you are?"

Greg smiles. "Yes, I am." John lets out a slow breath and nods a few times. Greg shrugs his shoulders. "And now it looks like you want to give me some kind of lecture?"

"Well."

"John..."

"Greg, this is Mycroft bloody Holmes."

"I am aware of that."

"No." John puts his elbows on his knees, clasps his hands and points with two fingers together. "This is Sherlock's brother, the man who whisks me away in mysterious cars to equally mysterious warehouses or sometimes Buckingham Palace and might possibly be the power behind the entire British government. I mean who really knows about him?"

"John, you are overreacting."

"Am I?"

Greg sits up and leans forward. "I don't see how this exactly concerns you anyway!"

John breathes in slowly and leans back in the chair. "Look, of anyone I'm probably one of the few that can understand what it is like to be close to one of the Holmes'. Maybe I am just concerned he might..." John sighs and chuckles once without mirth. "Okay, it does sound silly when I say it out loud but, maybe I'm concerned he'll hurt you." Greg scoffs. "I know Sherlock doesn't hurt people in the normal way," John presses, "so who's to say Mycroft is any different?"

Greg stares at John then rubs his forehead slowly. "Damn it, John, come on."

John looks away and crosses his arms. He shakes his head but doesn't say anything else. Greg watches John and wonders what exactly Sherlock said to clue John in to his new relationship. He would bet good money this connects to that Baskerville thing in some way.

"Look, John." John turns his head back to Greg. "I'm happy. And if he does end up hurting me, I am an adult, I can handle it."

John nods. "Right..."

"John, you don't need to be worried. I'm the one that's divorced. If anything, you should be concerned for Mycroft."

John smiles. "Don't know about that."

"So?"

"I am only saying, I know Sherlock and as much as they don't get along, they are similar." John stands up again. "Don't let him fuck with your head."

Greg smirks. "He won't, John. Maybe you don't know him as well as you think."

John nods once. "All right." Then he grabs the door knob and flashes Greg a smile. "Good luck."

\----------

Greg strides back and forth from the oven to the counter in his small kitchen. He cuts up bell peppers while the chicken sautés in two pans on his stove. He knows for chicken cacciatore he should be keeping it to one but he doesn't have a pan large enough for all the chicken. Plus, what is cooking without a little adventure? He can see what taste differences arise from the two pans.

"You'll burn the chicken."

Greg chuckles, pushing the chopped pepper to the side of his cutting board with the dull edge of his knife. "Stop trying to make me nervous. I know how to cook."

"Hmm," Mycroft says from closer behind Greg now, "as I see."

"And it still has a way to go." Greg peers over his shoulder, Mycroft leaning in the doorway with a wine glass in hand. "Are you done judging my flat?"

"I have been here before, Greg."

Greg smiles and turns back to his cutting board, picks up an onion. "Yes, twice, and both times we went straight to my bed."

Mycroft makes a pleased noise much like a purr. "True."

"So?"

"It is charming in its simplicity."

"Oh well, holding back." Greg switches back to the pans and turns over each piece of chicken, nearly done. "What you really mean is that it's small but clean enough to suit your suits."

Mycroft tuts. "I meant as I said, Greg. It is a suitable flat which very nearly screams middle-aged recently divorced bachelor."

"Thank you."

Mycroft's hand slides down Greg's side, resting on his hip. "You are quite welcome."

Greg shakes his head and looks over at Mycroft standing beside him now. "Are you trying to get in my way?"

"Would you call this trying?"

"I would call this 'back up please, I need to take off the chicken.'"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow then pulls his hand away and takes two steps back. Greg picks up his tongs and transfers the chicken to two plates, keeping the pans separate for now. He checks his watch then crouches down and pulls a large pot out of a bottom cupboard. He turns around as he stands up and holds out the pot.

"Put water in that, will you?"

Mycroft stares at the pot with some disdain but puts his wine glass down on the small kitchen table and takes the pot. Greg leans forward and kisses Mycroft. "Thank you."

"Hmmm."

Greg turns back to the counter and adds the chopped peppers, onion, and some garlic to both of the pans still on the stove with their layer of chicken juice. 

"All right, lets -" Greg begins but stops mid sentence when there is a sharp knock on the door.

Mycroft turns the water on in the sink, pouring into the pot, and raises an eyebrow at Greg. "Expecting someone?"

Greg points at him. "If that is Sherlock you're handling it."

Mycroft sighs.

Greg wipes his hands on the apron around his waist and walks over to the door. He flips the lock and pulls open the door to see David and Claire standing before him.

"Hello!" They chorus.

"No." Greg shakes his head and holds up a finger. "Definitely no."

"Come on, Greg, you can't hide him forever!" Claire insists.

"How do you even know -"

"Really?" David says. "You called me when you were at the grocery store. Chicken cacciatore? That's one of your 'impress them' meals."

'"It is not one -"

Claire and David just start to laugh. David holds up a bottle of red wine. "Come on, come on, we bring gifts so let us in."

"I..."

Claire makes a shooing motion with her hands. "Move aside big brother, you'll end up burning the meal on the stove arguing with us."

Greg blinks once slowly then steps out of the doorway. Claire flashes a smile and breezes past him. David smirks, rocking from side to side on his feet then holds out the wine to Greg. Greg takes it and David steps in.

"I promise we will behave with the tact and grace we always do."

"Crap."

David pats Greg on the cheek then follows where Claire led. Greg shuts the door and hurries after. He manages to overtake Claire as she is putting down her purse and gets to the kitchen door first. He notes the pot on the stove now and Mycroft standing by the counter as before, wine glass refilled, and eyes only slightly wider than normal. Greg mouth's 'I'm sorry' just as Claire slides into the doorway next to him, David a second after.

"Mycroft," Greg holds out a hand toward his siblings, "this is my sister Claire and my brother David. David and Claire, this is Mycroft Holmes."

"Well..." Mycroft says, taping his fingers on the counter.

"They're party crashing."

"We're very good at that," Claire adds.

"Might want to check on your cooking," David says to Greg, pointing at the sizzling pans.

Greg flashes David a look, hands him the wine bottle back, then steps around Claire into the kitchen. He picks up his spatula and swirls the vegetables around, adding some salt and pepper to each pan.

"So, we hear you like to shower our brother with gifts," Claire says as she walks into the kitchen and over to the counter beside Mycroft.

"Expensive gifts," David clarifies as he sets the bottle of wine down on the kitchen table.

"Yes." Claire opens a cupboard and pulls out two more wine glasses. "Expensive."

“Oh god…” Greg groans quietly.

Mycroft watches Claire, wine glass held up in his hand. "And what else does he say?"

"Well you see, now there's the rub. He has been rather tight lipped on the subject of you."

"Has he?"

"No, no." Greg holds up a hand. "Don't interrogate."

"Which one of them are you talking to?" David asks.

"Both."

"Well." Claire flashes Greg a smile then turns back to Mycroft. "Maybe we're on the same side already!"

Greg sighs and picks up the cooking wine, pouring some into each pan. "I swear I'm not feeding either of you if you keep up. You and David can sit on the couch and watch us eat."

Mycroft smirks and takes a sip of his wine.

"No need. We already ate," David says.

"No, you didn't. You love my cooking."

Claire taps the wine glasses lightly together. "He's right." Then she looks at Mycroft. "Where's the open bottle?"

"Fine. We didn't eat, which means you have to feed us. Can't let your only siblings starve."

"I could let one of you starve."

Claire gasps high. "Scandalous!"

David points at Claire. "Choose her."

"This is fascinating," Mycroft says as he pours wine into the glasses Claire holds.

All three Lestrades turn to look at Mycroft. He puts the empty wine bottle back on the counter, pushes it into the corner then takes a sip from his own glass.

"Care to elaborate?" David asks as he takes his glass from Claire.

Greg holds up his spatula. "Don't."

"Oh no, do!" Claire insists.

"Merely a stark difference in sibling dynamics," Mycroft explains. "Your jesting is... refreshing."

"Refreshing." David nods twice and takes a sip of the wine. "We are refreshing, Greg."

"Not to me."

"Well, dinner isn't about you tonight," Claire said.

"Who's it about then?"

"Mycroft," Claire and David chorus. 

Mycroft frowns. "I can assure you, that is not necessary."

"Oh no." Claire puts her wine glass down on the counter. "It is. Our brother here comes out of a twelve year marriage; we want to know whose hands he's fallen into."

"Claire..."

"He might act like he's happy being rid of Anne and maybe he is, but that doesn't mean that moving on is easy. David and I have known Greg our whole lives."

"Most of," David interjects.

Claire pauses but keeps eye contact with Mycroft. "The point is, we are not sideline siblings and we want to know who you are."

Mycroft abruptly puts his wine glass down on the counter across from Claire's. His jaw clenches and his expression is one Greg has seen on Sherlock's face many times before - analyzing, cataloging, and poised for attack. They stand motionless, staring at each for five seconds in which Greg does not breathe. Then Mycroft shifts his weight back onto his heels and picks up his glass again, that small smile and charm in place once more.

"I am a private man in all respects but as we do share a common interest, I will do what I can to illuminate myself for you."

Claire cracks a smile. "Well that certainly gives away that you went to some public school."

David snorts and Mycroft tilits his head. "After a fashion."

Greg rubs a hand over his forehead. "You're all going to give me a heart attack."

David walks over and claps a hand on Greg's shoulder. "Just cook dinner, Greg. Nothing to worry about."

Greg locks eyes with Mycroft over Claire's shoulder. Mycroft smiles slowly and Greg wonders, for a moment, who he should be more worried for.

Dinner passes far better than Greg expected. Mycroft plays a skillful game of dodging or redirecting Claire and David's questions on most things. The conversation, at one point, turns to the problems with raising twins then flips around to what the social construct of marriage really means to modern society. In fact, Mycroft gets away with only telling Claire and David that he works for the government, his brother is insufferable, and, no, he does not usually snore or sleep in.

Greg finally manages to convince his siblings the night is over, no dessert with this meal, sorry. He gets David to the door but Claire lingers behind a bit. Greg goes back to drag her out then stops just before the living room when he hears her speaking to Mycroft.

"...got away with not telling us much but I guess that says something about you too." She laughs once. "But, well, I know Greg really likes you and that says even more." There is a pause and Greg wishes he could see their faces then Claire's heels click on the wood floor. "So don't hurt him."

"I will do my best," Mycroft says quietly.

Greg steps around the corner. "Claire? Time to go."

Claire turns around, hand on her purse. "Oh, fine. Have your alone time then." She walks forward and around Greg with a passing kiss to his cheek. "Lovely to see you both."

Greg turns and watches her walk down the hall toward David. David opens the door and waves a hand at Greg as Claire walks through. "Call me after you two deconstruct the evening. I want to know the damage!"

"I won't," Greg says with a wave back.

Then David swoops out through the door and shuts it behind him. 

Greg drops his arm and breathes out audibly. "Unbelievable."

Mycroft steps across the room until he is right beside Greg, hip resting against Greg's. "Hardly surprising knowing your personality that your siblings would come in on the offensive." He rubs a circle over Greg's lower back. "Just imagine if Sherlock did not already know you what could have happened."

"I'd rather not."

"Hmm."

Greg turns and kisses the edge of Mycroft's jaw. "Right. I cooked which means you get to clean."

"Pardon?"

\----------

Greg sits at a long table, back against the wall, with what appears to be a quarter of his division at the pub. Gupta gets in a few of the drinks owed her after her collar a few months back. Donovan gives a toast to the division for 'professionalism,' 'dedication' and the like while Anderson follows up with "and for turning in paperwork," clapping Greg on the back.

"And three cheers for living through the press," Greg adds, the coppers raising their glasses with crows of 'here here' all around.

Technically there is no reason for them to be celebrating, no big case solved or promotion or anything. Sometimes people just need to celebrate, especially when one's profession involves crime and death.

"You know, I can't tell by looking at you about the nose," Donovan says to Gupta, pointing across her own nose.

Gupta touches her nose reflexively. "You think?"

Donovan shrugs. "Might have been nice to have a scar or something?"

Gupta snorts. "No, thank you."

"A good scar can help a lot, especially as a copper," Greg says.

"Ask Bell," Clipton says.

"Shut up, Ted!" Bell shouts down the table.

Clipton brushes his cheek and raises his eyebrows at her. Bell stands up and points at her face. "Want a matching one, Teddy bear?"

"Fuck you too, Mari."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Don't be jealous, Clipton."

"Oh, I am."

Bell sits down again and knocks back her beer, laughing to something PC Banks says in her ear. Greg grins and finishes the last of his beer. It's only his second in about an hour and a half so nothing to worry about. He's not driving but he'd also rather avoid any unnecessary hangovers.

"Another, sir?"

Greg starts slightly at Peters suddenly beside him gripping Greg’s empty glass. Donovan snorts quietly from his right.

Greg nods, "Sure, thanks Clark."

Peters' mouth gapes slightly and he flushes. He picks up Greg's empty glass and nearly runs away back toward the bar. Once he is out of earshot Donovan starts to laugh.

"Quiet," Greg mutters.

"You know he has a bit of a crush on you, right?"

"What did I just say?"

Donovan nods and holds up her hands. "All right, all right. I am silent."

"I'm not," Anderson says from across the table. "That's why you don't call anyone by their first name, isn't it?" Greg raises his eyebrows at Anderson. "Must avoid that appearance of favor?"

"You're paranoid."

"Appropriately so."

"Can we solve the bet now?" Brooks says, suddenly leaning full against Anderson and butting into the conversation.

"Sergeant?" Greg asks.

"I don't know if -" Anderson starts.

"Yes, lets!" Donovan interrupts.

"Did I hear bet?" Gupta asks as several other coppers murmur interest.

"If you're in the pool come down here," Donovan cries.

Gupta skids her chair to the side hard into Brooks while Clipton forces Banks to move over so he can sit right next to Donovan. Bell drags her chair around the tables and sits it down on the other side of Anderson at the end. A few others stand around the outside of the chairs while the remaining PCs scoot in the opposite direction, filling in the now emptier tables on the other end from Greg.

"Avery?" Donovan asks.

He shakes his head. "I don't want to be within arm's length of this. I can hear fine from here."

Donovan snorts. "Wimp."

"Happily."

Peter reappears and puts a beer down in front of Greg, pulling up a chair to sit beside Greg with his own pint. "Did I hear the word bet?"

Donovan grins. "You did."

"What is going on?" Greg finally asks.

Donovan lays her hands flat on the table and turns slightly so she can properly face Greg. "Well, we have a bit of bet going that needs to be settled."

Greg takes a sip of his beer. "By me?" 

"Yep."

"I think I am going to regret this already but go on."

"It's about who you're seeing now."

Greg groans.

Donovan smiles slowly. "There are a number of theories in our pool, some quite original in fact. I think Bell's idea takes the cake."

"Shhh," Bell hushes.

"But of course, nothing is so interesting as truth," Donovan continues.

"Did it not occur to you lot to leave off my personal life?"

"No," Gupta, Anderson, Donovan, Clipton and Bell say.

"Maybe," Peters squeaks.

Brooks raises a finger off her glass. "No comment."

Greg sighs. "Bloody ridiculous, what is it you want to know?"

"Who you are seeing now," Donovan explains, "because we all know there is someone. You've had enough deliveries for it not to be a passing thing."

"Still could be a stalker though," Bell pipes up.

Clipton sighs loudly. "No one likes your theory, Mari."

"No one likes your face, Ted!"

"I love you too."

Bell clenches her teeth though she is obviously fighting a grin. "I am going to come over there and -"

"Enough flirting!" Gupta snaps at Clipton and Bell then points at Greg. "It's Detective Inspector love affair time."

"What!" Greg gasps.

"That's not a sanctioned term," Anderson adds with a chug of his beer.

Greg rubs his forehead. "I am going to kill him."

"Him?" Donovan catches.

"Wait, who?" Gupta asks.

Clipton leans in closer. "Did you say him?"

Peters chokes and has to put his beer down on the table. Brooks takes a large gulp of her beer then fists her hands together on the table. All of them stare hard at Greg.

"Is this a confirmation?" Donovan asks.

Greg sighs and takes a swig of his beer. "Yes, all right, I'm seeing someone!"

All of the coppers sound off various cheers and whoops of delight, Anderson muttering 'we knew that,' and Peters making a high sort of laugh. Donovan waves her hands over the table to shush the gathering.

"Wait wait, we need more specifics!"

"Are we on an episode of _Hollyoaks_ now, what do you want, Sally?" Greg insists.

Donovan crosses her arms and Greg sees the drunkenness at the edges of her smile. "Well, must resolve the bet!"

"So… it's not you seeing your wife again?" Gupta asks.

Greg snorts. "Sorry, no."

Gupta, Donovan, Banks and a couple more PCs down the table groan.

Clipton shakes his head and points around the table with his beer. "Obviously it's not." He turns the beer pointing toward Greg. "We heard him say 'him' not five seconds ago. I thought you were all coppers?"

The table breaks up into a round of groaning, fake threats, and few handfuls of pup peanuts thrown back and forth. Greg considers just slowly sinking down in his chair until he is under the table. He is going to find a way to get Mycroft back for this even if it is only vaguely his fault.

"So, sir, you are now seeing some sort of charming gentleman who sends you what look like nice gifts, at least as far as I can see from my desk." Donovan picks up her beer again. "Is he parliament?"

Greg barks a laugh. "God no..." Greg hesitates then gives in. "But he is government."

"Yes!" Anderson whoops, while everyone else groans and sighs with disappointment.

"What?"

Donovan waves at hand at Anderson. "Philip bet it was a man in politics, why you were being so hush hush about it."

"Perhaps I just like privacy."

"Never," Anderson says.

"Just how often are there bets going round about my love life?"

"Love life?" Gupta asks with an exaggerated eyebrow raise.

"He means sex life," Anderson corrects.

Gupta nods and makes an 'o' shape with her mouth. "Yes, of course, sex life."

"You're all bloody hilarious, thank you."

"And I expect prompt payment!" Anderson insists.

They all begin to grumble, some pulling out wallets while others chug down the last of their beers. Banks stands up so he can clap Anderson on the back as Gupta beings to whisper in Anderson's ear. Sally grins at Greg and rocks back and forth slightly in her seat looking pleased with herself even though she clearly just lost money.

"You organize one of these bets again, I'm demoting you back to the academy."

Sally raises her eyebrows high. "Yes, sir."

Greg picks up his beer and takes a big swig. On his other side Peters leans slightly closer.

"So, it's definitely not Sherlock Holmes then?"

Greg's mouth drops open but he very consciously does not tell Peters that he, in fact, may be closest to the truth of all.

\----------

Greg walks in the front door of the Diogenes Club, making sure his jacket is buttoned and that, no, he hasn’t spilled coffee on himself today. The man at the door nods at him, holding his arm out toward the hall. As expected, the building is silent expect for the occasional creak of wood or muffled cough. Greg knows Mycroft should be here somewhere now as it is after lunch and, apparently, the Diogenes is his regular early afternoon haunt. Drawback is, Greg has never been in this building before and cannot ask anyone ‘where might I find Mycroft Holmes?’

Greg turns a corner past more fine dark wood then stops just inside an open room with some leather chairs beside small circular tables and a large white fireplace; only two people in the room apart from himself now. Greg peers up at the ceiling, at least a couple meters above his head. He wonders what the electric and heating bills are like here. Then he smiles and walks over to the chair closest to the fireplace. Greg stops in front of the chair and waits for about five seconds before touching the top of Mycroft’s newspaper. One flap folds over in on itself then the whole newspaper drops down. Mycroft raises his eyebrows with slight surprise and smiles.

Greg mouths ‘hi.’

Mycroft folds his newspaper in half and then half again. Greg reaches forward and takes it out of Mycroft’s hands. He turns it around and sees it is The Times. He folds it one more time in his hand then glances to the newspaper resting on the table beside Mycroft. Mycroft turns his head and shifts the paper around with one finger so it is readable to Greg. He notices the covered stories on both papers are the same. Greg and Mycroft glance back at each other. Greg nods and hands the newspaper back.

Mycroft crosses his legs, picks up his tea cup from the table and takes a sip. He puts the cup back in the saucer then holds it up toward Greg. Greg waves a hand, ‘no.’ Mycroft puts the tea cup back on the table and uncrosses his legs again. Greg bites the edge of his lip briefly and plans to tell Mycroft how his ploys at distraction are both obvious and successful. 

Mycroft looks Greg up and down once then makes a ‘back up’ motion with one hand. Greg grins and shakes his head. He mouths, ‘no.’ Mycroft frowns but his lips quirk up again almost immediately. He stands up from his chair into Greg’s personal space. Mycroft straightens his collar, pulls down the bottom of his suit jacket, hands by his hips, and Greg ghosts his fingers over the back of Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft turns away and walks across the room toward one door. Greg watches him walk, perfect suit and steady stride, then follows. Turning down two hallways, Mycroft opens another dark wood door into what looks like a small library or office, probably both. Greg closes the door behind him.

“I take it I can talk now?” Greg says.

“Yes.” Mycroft turns around to face Greg, a glass decanter with what is probably Scotch or something equally posh inside on the side table next to him. “There is the occasional need for speech or at least further privacy here.”

Greg circles his eyes around the room, a lot of hard leather and books which probably date to the Regency era. “I can see that.”

Mycroft picks up the decanter and pours two glasses. “I do admire your ease at speaking without words, however.” 

“By admire you mean 'amused.'”

“Same family.” Mycroft walks back across the room to where Greg still stands near the door. He holds out a glass for Greg which he takes. “Won’t you come in?”

“I am in.”

Mycroft clicks his teeth together. “You are having a good sort of day, aren’t you?”

“Well, I had time to get away from the office and seeing you has added to that level of ‘good.’

“Charming.”

“I can be.”

Mycroft sips from his glass then turns and walks back around one leather chair. He puts his glass on the desk and shifts a few papers already lying there.

“Was there a reason you came to my club to find me?”

“No.” Mycroft turns part way to look at Greg. “I just wanted to see you.” Greg walks forward, following in the same path Mycroft took over the carpet. 

Suddenly Mycroft’s phone starts to chime. Mycroft frowns deeply as he pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He pulls it up to his ear as Greg smirks at him. “What?”

Mycroft’s face changes and he turns around toward the desk again. “No, no we must have confirmation. He must believe himself in control.” He huffs. “You are not paid to think, you are paid to act. He is released and you will monitor his movements.”

Mycroft hangs up his mobile and tosses it onto the desk in front of him. He turns around again, taking a large gulp from his glass.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask you how your work day is going?”

“It is often trying being the only one who can think.”

“Right.” Greg swirls the liquid around in his glass then puts it down right beside Mycroft’s once he stops right in front of the other man. “You probably wouldn’t care to hear about my day either, only a couple ongoing murder cases.”

“The joys of London.” Mycroft touches the white buttons on Greg’s shirt, sliding his hand down and around Greg’s side until he suddenly tugs Greg forward against him.

“Hello,” Greg says, laying his hands on Mycroft’s hips.

“I don’t believe either of us need or would benefit from any sort of discussion or analysis of our respective activities of the day thus far.” Mycroft’s fingers slip beneath Greg’s trouser line at his back while his other hand traces a path along Greg’s belt. “And we have already determined our mutual ability to converse without words.”

Greg chuckles, his hands moving up to unbutton Mycroft’s waistcoat. “Mr. Holmes, are you being coy?”

“I believe I am being direct.”

“Oh, I see.”

Then Mycroft’s hands clench and he kisses Greg, pulling Greg even closer so he barely has room to move his fingers over Mycroft’s buttons. Mycroft kisses, tastes like scotch, and bites Greg’s lip. Greg laughs into the kiss and it feels as though they knew this would happen and have been waiting all day. 

Mycroft’s hand fumbles around Greg’s belt, missing and only pulling out the strap halfway, while Greg gets all of Mycroft’s buttons undone and his hands on Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft sighs happily into the kiss, his nails scratching against Greg’s lower back. Greg kisses the corner of Mycroft’s mouth then his lips again. He grips Mycroft’s tie which causes Mycroft to push forward and back Greg up against one of the heavy, leather upholstered chairs. Greg hisses, gasps, and works at the knot of Mycroft’s tie as he moves along Greg’s jaw, kissing hard at his pulse point.

Then Greg’s mobile starts to buzz in his jacket pocket.

“Bloody… fucking…”

Mycroft reaches into Greg’s pocket and pulls out the vibrating mobile. He stands up a bit straighter and hands it to Greg.

“Yeah?” Greg says as he clicks answer.

“Sir, where are you?”

“What is it, Donovan?”

“We need you, A.S.A.P. Bank issue, they need us there.”

Greg sighs, looking at Mycroft's kissed red lips. “Really?”

“Sir?”

“Fine. Be there in ten.” Greg hangs up without letting Donovan continue and drops his arm. “I have to go.”

“I gathered.” Mycroft reaches down and slips Greg’s belt back into alignment.

Greg snorts and shakes his head. “Thanks. I’m sorry, guess we’re both having one of those days.”

“Apparently and there is no need to apologize. I guarantee I shall be doing a similar thing to you numerous times in the future.”

“We’re talking about the phone call, right?”

Mycroft runs a hand through Greg’s hair then steps back, buttoning the top button of his vest and pulling his tie back into a proper knot. “Good bye, Greg.” 

Greg smiles then walks quickly toward the door. Once his hand touches the doorknob Mycroft clears his throat. Greg pauses and looks back, eyebrows raised.

"I...." Mycroft presses his lips together then clears his throat. "I simply wished to say I am pleased this appears to be working between us."

Greg drops his hand. "Oh?"

"Despite my obligations." He nods toward his mobile on the desk.

"And mine," Greg adds.

Mycroft smiles. "Of course. This was a, well, shall we say somewhat of a gamble which I am not normally accustomed to."

Greg nods. "I know."

"A gamble which appears to have 'paid off,' as they say."

Greg chuckles and slips his hands into his pockets. "I am happy too, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiles as he dips his head, "Happy, yes." 

Greg watches Mycroft, his eyes just high enough to still see Greg, his suit back in place as if nothing had happened moments earlier. Greg wants to sit and watch Mycroft simply move all day, calculation and grace and a heart he tries to conceal.

Mycroft looks up then nods toward the door. "Your crime scene."

Greg opens his mouth, looks at the door then back to Mycroft. "Right, yeah." He watches Mycroft a moment longer then turns the door knob. "Bye."

The ‘bank issue' Greg is called to work for leads to Greg being held at gun point as a hostage then a fractured skull when pistol whipped.

\----------

The burglar in the bank took hostages then made demands then stood down then ran. They entered to lock the place down, assess any injuries, find how and where the burglar escaped, except that he actually hadn't. It was about then that the bank burglar, turns out his name was Mark Chaffers, jumped from a closet, of all things, to put a gun to Greg's head.

"Nice and slow," Mark says as he pulls Greg backward held in front of himself like a shield.

"This is a bad decision," Greg says quietly, his hands up by his head.

"I think it's a great one, getting out of here and not going to jail? Good idea, right?"

Greg's eyes dart around, none of the other Officers back here yet but they will be soon. "You know coppers are not a fan of when you take hostages."

"Not my first time today." He yanks Greg around a corner and through a set of swinging doors.

"Oi!" A PC shouts at they come through then pulls back when she sees the gun to Greg's head. "Inspec...."

"Stay where you are!" Mark shouts and digs the gun barrel into Greg’s skull so he hisses in pain.

"It's all right," Greg murmurs and nods a fraction toward the officer.

She stays where she is but Greg can see her staring daggers at Mark grabbing Greg's collar. Then they turn another corner, passing office doors. Greg swallows, counts seconds and focuses on breathing in and out, not tripping as Mark keeps him walking backward.

"Back door..." Mark whispers.

"We have that covered too," Greg says, "you can't -"

"Then they'll have to back off unless they want your brains on the pavement!" Mark snaps.

"Maybe, but you -" Greg stops mid-sentence and elbows Mark hard in the abdomen. He whips around and grabs Mark's hand with the gun. Mark hits the wall, barely keeps hold of the gun, then yanks Greg forward as they both try to gain control. Greg pulls their hands, knocks Mark's into the wall before swinging up again. Then Mark manages to jam a knee into Greg's inner thigh so Greg stumbles and loses his grip on the gun. Greg falls to one knee then looks up just in time to see the black flash of the gun coming toward his face.

"...like from a film."

"They usually get shot in films."

"If you call this a silver lining in comparison or something, I swear."

"I didn't say that."

"You implied!"

"Could you two stop arguing?" Greg groans out as he opens his eyes.

David and Claire sit on opposite sides of his hospital bed, David leaning forward in his argument stance and Claire twisting her fingers up in her brown hair. Both of them jerk their heads around when Greg speaks. They hop up to standing and slide closer to him.

"Greg?" Claire says.

David grins and touches Greg's arm. "He wakes."

"Unfortunately." Greg groans. "My head feels like..."

"Like you were pistol whipped? Because that's what your sergeant said happened. You look at someone's mother the wrong way?" David wiggles his eyebrows.

"You're hilarious." Greg winces again and puts a hand up to his head, feeling a bandage. "I must look a sight."

Claire smiles. "Well you have some nice lacerations on your head and they say a small skull fracture."

"Little bastard," Greg mutters.

"They caught that little bastard, by the way," David informs, "soon after he clocked you."

"Perfect."

Claire leans over and kisses Greg's cheek. "As your younger sister, I command you to stay away from these criminal types."

"I am a cop, you know."

Claire sighs and crosses her arms. She shoots a look over him at David.

David shrugs. "While you both make good points I will have to defer to Claire."

Claire nods. "Thank you."

"All right, yeah, I..." He hisses and resists the urge to hold his head between both hands. "I hear you."

"Ahem."

At the sound, Greg gazes past David to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. When Mycroft catches his eyes, Greg smiles weakly. David and Claire turn their heads. Claire waves half-heartedly.

David turns back to Greg. "We'll be right back. Going to get a coffee or a sandwich or some other thing that is outside of this room for some period of time."

"Smooth, David."

David winks, gently kisses the top of Greg's head then stands up straight. "Shall we, Claire?"

Her lip twitches but she nods and follows David, around and out into the hall behind Mycroft. Mycroft nods at them as they pass and glances once over his shoulder as they go. Then he turns around and closes the door to the hospital room. He walks over and stands close to the bed next to Greg. He leans over and touches the bandage on Greg's head.

Mycroft sighs. "I do hope you weren't doing something stupidly heroic."

"Would it really be worse if I was?"

"Probably."

Greg chuckles.

"And were you?"

"No."

Mycroft breathes in slowly and sits down beside the bed. He grips the edge of the bed beside Greg's hand but not quite touching. Mycroft's eyes coast over Greg's face, lingering on the bandage. His lips tighten against each other, almost a frown but something else too.

Greg reaches his fingers out the touches Mycroft's. "I'm all right."

"This situation would beg to differ, Greg," Mycroft snaps.

"I have some cuts that will heal and -"

"And a skull fracture. That is hardly nothing."

"Pain will be gone in less than a week."

Mycroft scoffs, pulling his hand away from Greg's. "Oh, the facture itself will take far longer."

"I know but it'll do it on its own." Mycroft frowns further. Greg sits up more in bed, wincing only once at the stabbing feeling in his head. "Really, Mycroft, I will be out of here in a few days."

Mycroft sighs. "I am aware your wounds will heal that does not mean I enjoy seeing you in a hospital bed with those wounds in the first place!"

Greg leans back on his pillows. Mycroft looks down at the covers then puts his hand over Greg's. He takes his other hand and slides it under Greg's hand. He squeezes Greg's hand between his once gently. Greg sits up again and kisses Mycroft's temple, pressing their foreheads together.

"I have learned the necessary information about the man who did this to you," Mycroft says.

Greg chuckles and runs his free hand over Mycroft's. "He's been arrested. Don't go sticking him in some dark room with no windows for life."

"I had a deep hole in mind myself."

Greg chuckles again and pulls back enough so he can see Mycroft's face. "Now you're just being romantic."

Mycroft shakes his head. "Do avoid these sort of situations in the future. For my sake at the very least."

"More than least but I make no promises, the life of a man of the MET."

"Please?" Mycroft rests his forehead against Greg's again. 

Greg has to swallow once before he can speak. "I will do my best."

"As I always expect." Then Mycroft kisses Greg and does not let go of his hand.

\----------

Greg knocks on the door of Mycroft's office then opens it when he hears Mycroft's soft 'yes' from inside. Mycroft is still looking at his laptop as Greg walks in so it is not until Greg is right in front of his desk that Mycroft finally sees him.

He smiles and pulls his hands off the keyboard. "Ah ha, back to your usual self."

"Might have gained a few scars," Greg says, pointing to the healing lines on his face.

"They will fade."

Greg nods and touches the back of the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. "I have something for you."

Mycroft tilts his head. "Oh?"

Greg reaches into his coat and pulls out a small blue wrapped box with a silver ribbon around it. He holds it out over Mycroft's desk. Mycroft raises his eyebrows then takes the box from Greg.

"Is this some sort of 'pay back' present? I believe you mentioned an intention to buy me atrocious ties?"

Greg shakes his head. "This is not something like that." Mycroft looks at the box, taps his finger tips on it then looks up at Greg again. Greg smiles and put his hands in his pockets. "Open it."

Mycroft sets the box down on his desk. He pulls one end of the ribbon until it is off completely then sets it to the side. He pulls at the paper along the folded corners, carefully removing the tape, until he has the full sheet of wrapping paper, with no rips, off the box. Greg bites his lip but says nothing. Mycroft puts the paper aside then opens the box. In the box are two keys on a silver keychain.

Mycroft looks up. "Keys?"

"Building and my flat," Greg says, pointing to each key in turn.

"Appears to be an invitation for surprise visits?"

"Maybe."

Mycroft picks the keys up out of the box, sliding the two against each other between his fingers. "Why?"

Greg shrugs. "It felt like it was time."

Mycroft stands up, puts the keys in his pocket then comes around the front of his desk. He slips his fingers through the belt loops of Greg's trousers and pulls Greg forward against him. Greg smiles, Mycroft's lips nearly touching his. 

"Thank you," Mycroft whispers.


	5. Profoundly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You all right?" Mycroft blinks and gives Greg a look as though he might jump up and run away from the table. "I take it you've not been having the best day?"_
> 
> _Mycroft chuckles breathlessly. "I am fine, Greg, only seeing you at times awakens something in me I thought absent."_
> 
> _"And what is that?"_
> 
> _"Honesty."_

Greg wakes up to sunshine from his open blinds, instead of a more sleep appropriate closed. He smiles anyway if only for the fact that it is Friday. He picks up his watch off the bedside table and sees it is nearly seven. He would be annoyed at the sun for waking him but the chance to see Mycroft still asleep is a rare one, so thank you, sun. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment, face half obscured due to being buried in a pillow. Greg brushes a hand over Mycroft’s hair then gets out from under the covers which are half on the floor now exposing Mycroft’s ankles. Greg grabs his pants and t-shirt off the floor, partially dresses then walks toward the bathroom.

Greg squeezes some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and runs it over his teeth. Then he looks up in the mirror, “oh fuck.” Greg runs the water, spiting and rising his mouth out. He drops the toothbrush back into the holder on the sink corner then searches around for his comb.

"Come on..."

He looks on the shelves beside the sink, just towels and shaving cream, some magazines on the bottom. Then he remembers to open the medicine cabinet right in front of him. Greg opens the mirror, picks the comb up off the shelf and shakes his head at himself. He drags the comb through his hair a few times then decides a shower would probably be a better idea.

"After coffee," Greg mutters to himself and puts the comb back in the medicine cabinet.

Greg leaves the bathroom and glances back into the bedroom. Mycroft has rolled over and is now in the center of the bed, the covers slipping dangerously low. Greg pauses a moment at the view then turns back down the hall toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, Greg pulls the French press Mycroft gave him from the cabinet - he brought it home from work after its near lack of use there - and puts it on the counter.

"I need..." Greg blinks a few times to wake himself up then grabs the kettle off the stove. "Water... need water."

Greg sticks the kettle under the tap and lets it fill to a reasonable height. He should probably add enough in case Mycroft wakes up before Greg has to leave. He actually has no idea if he should be waking Mycroft up or not. Mycroft's hours of work are considerably indefinable. Greg shuts off the water, puts the kettle on the stove, then flips the eye on until the flame catches.

"Step one..." Greg sighs then stares at his press for a full minute before he remembers he should be getting out some coffee. "Shit, yeah." He rubs his eyes. "And this is why I don't wake up at seven."

Greg fumbles through his cabinets, knocks some tea onto the counter until he finally finds the bag of coffee Mycroft brought over last week. He opens it, sniffs it once and smiles. 

"Good morning." Then he pours some into the press.

Two minutes later, Greg pours the boiling water into the press, watches for a few minutes as the coffee grounds float and mix and turn the water into a dark, rich color. Then he pushes the ball at the top of the press down, squeezing all the grounds to the bottom. Greg picks two MET mugs from his cabinet then moves to the refrigerator for some milk.

"I must request the first mug."

Greg jumps and turns around, milk in hand. "Jesus..."

In the kitchen doorway, Mycroft's hands work on tying his tie, gray dress trousers on and white shirt buttoned up to his chin.

"You're already dressed but now you need coffee?"

Mycroft smiles. "It is all a façade, my dear Greg. Trust me."

Greg walks back over the mugs, pours in some milk then pours coffee from the press on top. He grabs a spoon from the drying rack beside the sink and stirs the liquid twice. Then he taps the spoon on the edge, drops it in the other mug and steps over to Mycroft.

"Here, I'll trade you." He holds out the coffee. Mycroft takes the mug while Greg unknots the off kilter knot of Mycroft's tie. "Can't have your tie any less than perfect."

"Obviously not." Mycroft sips the coffee. "Ah yes."

Greg smiles, flipping one side of the tie over and around the back. "Well, it is the coffee you bought."

"Thank god."

Greg pulls the finished Windsor knot tie against Mycroft's collar. He drops his hands and tilts his head. "May I pour my own coffee now?"

"You may."

Greg snorts and turns back to the counter. He adds the milk then pours the rest of the press coffee into his mug, spilling just a little on the counter. He adds a bit of sugar to his mug then turns back around, leaning against the counter. He stirs the liquid then tosses the spoon back into the sink.

"You have time to eat or does Brazil need a new president?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he sips his coffee again. "No on both points."

Greg gulps some of his coffee then hisses at the burn. "Shame. Could have made you an omelet."

"Hmm." Mycroft drinks some more of his coffee. "As tempting as that is, I have some early obligations to attend to. You may attempt to domesticate me at another time."

Greg snorts. "I don't think you need my help." Mycroft raises both eyebrows. "Both the press and coffee were bought by you."

Mycroft smiles. "I see your point."

Mycroft turns and walks out of the kitchen, mug still in hand. Greg hears Mycroft moving in the bedroom and he smiles; must have the waistcoat and suit jacket for the outfit to be complete. Greg takes a big gulp of his coffee and glances at the clock on the stove, just seven fifteen.

Greg rubs a hand over his face. "Damn mornings."

"Greg."

Greg drops his hand and looks at Mycroft in the doorway again, suit ensemble complete. Greg frowns as Mycroft holds out his mug. “Did you chug it?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Caffeine is a necessary evil."

"Evil?"

"God send."

Greg snorts. "All right." He takes the empty mug and places it in the sink. "Well, go conquer the world for England then."

"Your humor knows no bounds."

"I know."

Mycroft sighs but Greg just keeps grinning. After a pause, Mycroft's lip quirks up then he steps forward and kisses Greg once. "You are infuriating."

"Thank you."

\----------

The first press conference covering the crown jewel heist, break in, whatever the papers want to call it, is an absolute nightmare. The reporters talk over each other, spouting more accusations than questions, hardly waiting for a response before plowing ahead again. How could this happen? Who is this man? Does this relate to the break in at the Bank of England? What about Pentonville Prison? What does this mean? What about the security? Why weren’t you prepared? On and on and on and Greg nearly just tells them all to fuck off before the pony show is finally wrapped up and the press are shoved out.

“What the hell just happened?” Donovan mutters as they walk down the hall.

“You were there, tell me!” Greg snaps.

“He sat there waiting for us. What the hell does that mean? Was it some kind of plan?”

“Donovan, I’m not in his head.”

“As much as I hate to ask, what does Sherlock say?”

Greg scoffs loudly. “I’m sure he’ll be saying a whole lot more soon.”

“It was his name that –“

“I saw.”

“Sir.” Donovan gets ahead of him and stops in his path. “If Sherlock is at the center of this then –“

“We don’t know that.”

“Yes, we do! He could be involved more than you think.”

Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “This happened only yesterday, Donovan, keep the paranoia to a minimum, all right.” She opens her mouth but Greg waves a hand. “I know, I know, it’s insane enough already. But we do it by the numbers, all right? I’m sure every MP and their interns are going to be calling us for weeks so we have to get cracking now.”

“Cracking then.” Donovan nods then turns and marches away from him.

Greg checks his watch. He has about twenty minutes until his meeting with the superintendent. Greg turns around and walks back to the stairs. He goes all the way to the bottom and out the back of New Scotland Yard, a couple police cars parked by the curb. Greg pulls the pack of ‘emergency’ cigarettes from his coat pocket then takes out the lighter and one cigarette from inside. (Just the one, he’ll buy some more patches on his way home tonight). Greg holds the cigarette between his lips, lights the end then inhales deeply. 

“Bloody…” He blows out smoke. “Yes.”

Greg puts the pack and lighter back in his pocket then pulls his mobile from his other. He clicks Mycroft’s number then puts the phone up to his ear.

Mycroft answers after three rings. “Lively press conference?”

“Oh yeah. I assume you already knew about all this?” Greg takes the cigarette from his mouth, absently knocking ash off the end.

“I have had several conference calls about it.”

“What, with the prime minister?”

“One of them.”

Greg sucks on the end of his cigarette again and breathes in and out. “Damn.”

“Quite.”

“Has Sherlock told you anything? It must be the same man from before with the bombings but…” Greg shakes his head and takes another drag of his cigarette. “It’s completely different.”

“When it comes to Jim Moriarty, it is best to expect the unexpected.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Suffice it say, he has hands in many pies and this is hardly an accident.”

“Wait... hardly an accident?"

"Never you mind, it is as I said. No need for you to bother about it."

"No need..." Greg paces a few steps to the left. “No, no ‘never you mind,’ what do you mean?”

“I should think it obvious he meant to be caught.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Oh, Greg.”

“Look, if you know more, you should tell me. It’s in my court now.”

Mycroft sighs. “This is above your pay grade.”

Greg blinks. “Above my….”

“Yes, of course, this little farce is showing what he is capable of, which I am already quite aware of. Message heard. I would think you would realize it is not something the MET will be able to handle.”

Greg stops dead. “You can’t mean... he’s in my jail! He’ll be going to trial.”

“A trial which he will undoubtedly walk away from free.”

“Mycroft!”

“When it comes to Jim Moriarty it takes a different branch of our government.”

“What, your kind?”

Mycroft huffs. “Just do what you do, Greg, use the law. You needn’t worry about what may happen regardless of the system. The wheels are in motion and I have plans –“

“Oh yes? Plans?”

“Which you do not need to know!”

“I’m a fucking police officer, of course I should know!” Greg shouts, pointing violently with his cigarette hand. 

Mycroft laughs. “And who do you think I am?”

“I think we’re on the same side!”

Mycroft sighs yet again. “Could we possibly move on to a different topic of discussion?”

“No.” Greg quickly sucks more smoke in from his cigarette, raining ash as he paces back and forth. “No, Mycroft, Jim Moriarty is in police custody and we need all the information available to properly prosecute him. That is what the law is for.”

“There are levels of the law, Greg.”

Greg scoffs sharply. “And just how does this transfer to National Security?”

“You needn't know," Mycroft hisses.

Greg growls. “That is ridiculous, this is a case which –“

“Just let it go, Greg!” Mycroft suddenly snaps. “Jim Moriarty is not really your problem, he is mine! It will be out of your hands soon enough and you can return to your desk!”

Greg hangs up. 

He breathes in an out quickly, mobile still fisted tight in his hand and cigarette burning closer to his fingers. He tries to slow his breathing down and resists the urge to kick the building wall or heave his mobile into the street. 

Finally, he drops the arm holding his mobile and takes another deep drag of his cigarette before he drops it on the ground and grinds it into the cement with his shoe. Then he turns and walks back into the building.

\----------

Greg and Mycroft sit across from each other at lunch. Mycroft has a salad with some sort of vinaigrette dressing. Greg wants to tell him it is unnecessary but Mycroft’s complex runs rather deeper than any assurances Greg would give could penetrate. Greg has no problem having a sandwich with meat and cheese, thanks. 

Mycroft’s eyes tick to the watch on Greg’s wrist. He purses his lips and stabs more lettuce.

“We’ve only been here fifteen minutes,” Greg says, “don’t think you’re going to be late for anything yet.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Greg chuckles. “Oh, never am with you.”

“Is that some sort of passive aggressive insult?”

Greg sighs. “No, it’s not. I’m not Sherlock.”

Mycroft smiles. “No, his insults are hardly passive.”

“Don’t I know it.” Greg shakes his head. “He came in yesterday, stack of information from the cases before about Jim Mo–” Then Greg cuts himself off.

Mycroft glances up. “About?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Sherlock just being himself as usual.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft gazes at Greg a moment longer then looks back at his salad. “As long as he isn’t making any ill advised blog posts or taking interviews.”

“Doubt that.” Greg picks up his water. “Though some of us have to.”

Mycroft smiles. “Trust me, the private meetings can be far more loathsome than the daggers of the press.”

"Oh yeah? Talk to me again when you're forced into press conferences."

Mycroft laughs mirthlessly. "Those with status demand just as many answers as the uninformed masses."

“Right, you and your closed doors.”

Mycroft looks up sharply. “Doors are put in place for a reason.”

“What, to keep in or out?”

“That all depends which side of the door you’re on.”

Greg huffs. “Do we have to keep up the metaphor?”

“I believe you began it.” Mycroft spears a cherry tomato with his fork. "Though it is perfectly apt."

Greg rubs his forehead with one hand. “I’m just trying to have lunch.”

“And so we are.”

“But you’re –“ Greg cuts himself off and shakes his head.

"You brought up the case."

"You brought up the class divides."

Mycroft puts his fork down and leans back against his chair. “Really, Greg, will we let something like work come between us?”

“You sound like a cliché.” Greg frowns. “And it’s not just work to either of us, is it?”

Mycroft taps his teeth together and frowns. “Greg, when has my secrecy in regards to my work, my position, ever been a problem for you before?”

“When it wasn’t directly in conflict with mine.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Please.”

“Well!”

“There is no conflict. I would assume as one in civil service you would understand how hierarchy works."

"Hierarchy," Greg mutters, eating one crisp off his plate. 

Mycroft frowns. "Yes, some of us can make headway." He waves a dismissive hand. "Or are you really so simple as to believe your police and court case will be anything but a useless sham?”

Greg bangs a hand on the table so their plates clatter and Mycroft’s fork falls to the ground. Greg bites his teeth together before he says anything rashly. Mycroft stares at him and actually has the sense to look somewhat regretful. Greg shakes his head and pulls out his wallet.

“Greg…”

“I have to get back to my desk.” Greg puts ten pounds on the table next to his plate. “Not hungry anymore.”

“You are being dramatic,” Mycroft insists.

Greg stands up and picks up his coat off the back of his chair. He puts it over his shoulders, arms through and glares at Mycroft, “and you're being a dick.” Then he walks away.

\----------

Greg walks around the crime scene with Sergeant Bell behind him. She instructs the PCs, making sure the caution tape is up in all the right places. Greg sends Peters off to take care of crowd control until the crime scene techs are done with the photographs. Greg crouches down beside the body of the girl face down on the pavement. He tilts his head, looking at the long, deep gash on her forehead which is the least of her injuries.

“So, fall that killed her?” Bell asks. She turns and points up at the building of flats beside them. “I’d say that balcony up there if I’ve got the angle right.”

Greg turns and peers up. “I’d say right but don’t think it was the fall.”

Bell looks down at him. “No? All those broken bones aren’t enough for you after three stories?”

“Nope.” Greg points at her neck. “Look.”

Bell crouches down beside him, turning her head sideways. “Bruising.”

“Strangled.” Greg stands up again and points up at the building. “What’d you think, she was thrown?”

“During or after?”

Greg grins. “And this is why I like Sergeant Bell.”

She smiles back. “I’ll get with forensics and see what we can figure it out.”

“Fabulous.” He looks around at some of the other officers. “Hurry it up so we can get her off the street.”

Greg walks back toward his car, blue light still spinning on the top. His mobile buzzes in his pocket. Greg pulls it out and sees ‘Mycroft’ on the ID. He stares at it for another buzz then clicks answer.

“Hi.”

“Greg.”

“That is me.”

Mycroft chuckles once in a polite way. “Are you free for dinner?”

“Oh, so right into it.” Greg chews the inside of his cheek. “Don’t you already know if I’m available or not?”

“I am not inside your head, Greg.”

“Thank God.”

Mycroft sighs. 

“Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m at a crime scene.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I’ll call you back.” Greg hangs up and lets his arm fall to his side.

Greg turns and leans against his car. He looks at the crime scene, blood on the pavement and PCs all around. Greg grits his teeth and shakes his head. He balls his free hand into a fist then pulls his mobile up again. He clicks ‘recent’ and redials Mycroft.

“This seems quick for a crime scene?”

Greg rubs a hand in his hair. “I can talk for five minutes, still gathering physical evidence.”

“Charming.”

“So, you said dinner?”

“Yes, I… I wish to see you.”

Greg smiles a little. “Not too busy with National Security?”

“Greg, don’t descend into baiting. It is unattractive.”

Greg bites his lip and drops the mobile from his ear for a moment. Shaking his head, he rubs the bridge of his nose then pulls the mobile up to his ear again.

“I wasn’t trying to bait you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Well, looks like it worked then.”

Mycroft sighs.

“You know, you sigh a lot.”

“You are not helping with that!”

Greg rolls his eyes. “It was actually a serious question. I know we are swamped in my small area of the law with this Moriarty trial coming up. It’s all hands on deck over here. So I don't know how busy you –”

“Must we talk about –“

“I wasn’t trying to –“

“And yet, you were.”

“Well, what do you think I am working on every day, Mycroft?” Greg turns around to face the car and keeps his voice down as best he can. “And I know you say there are levels and divides and that our work does not crossover but why can’t it? Why do you need to have all your cloak and daggers when we have him in custody right now and with your help we can put it all to bed!”

Mycroft makes a growling sort of noise and Greg hears something smack in the background. “If you could hear yourself; you have absolutely no idea what is really going on!”

“Because you won’t tell me!”

“Why can’t you just accept that I cannot tell you everything!” Mycroft snaps.

Greg bangs a fist on the top of his car and stares at the ground. He understands. He does. He knows National Security and the Metropolitan Police are different, different crimes, different stakes, different access, different parts of the law. But when did cooperation fail as an option? When did a crime of national importance not lead to the letter of the law?

“This isn’t a bloody Bond film with exploding pens and SPECTRE. It’s the real world, Mycroft.”

“Never mind what I said about dinner,” Mycroft says crisply. “I find I am busy after all.” Then the line cuts off.

Greg drops his hand and puts his mobile right back into his coat pocket. Greg stares at the roof of the car, flashes of blue reflecting off the silver surface.

“Sir?” Greg turns around to see Bell standing behind him. She points at the scene, the body under a sheet now. “We’re ready to move the body.”

Greg nods, pats the hood of the car and stands up straighter. “Right, lets go.”

\----------

Greg and David sit in a booth at a pub near David’s house. They both watch the football match on the screen behind the bar, the teams currently tied with one point each. David is nearly done his beer, having needed a bit of a rant about his wife when they first arrived, while Greg still has half of his. Greg glances at his mobile on the table then back at the game.

“They’re running slower now. Aren’t they running slower?” David knocks back the last of his beer. “They have to be.”

“They’re not running any slower.”

“They have to be.”

“Are you drunk already?”

David turns to Greg. “Why, what are you implying? Are you saying I’m an alcoholic?”

“Of course no –“

“Are you saying I have a problem?” David gasps and wraps his hands around his empty glass. “No, no please, just one more!”

Greg laughs. “Glad to be out of the house I see.”

“When you are a house husband you will understand.” David leans out of the booth a little, clearly looking for their server. “Why do you think my behavior keeps regressing? I only talk to the kids.”

“And that’s what you get for working from home.”

“I do an excellent load of laundry while on my tablet at the same time.” David slides his empty glass to the outside edge of the table. “It should be on my résumé.”

Then Judy, their server, reappears with two glasses of the same already in her hands. She puts them down on the table and picks up David’s empty glass. She looks at Greg’s and furrows her eyebrows accusingly.

Greg frowns. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, these are both for me.” David pulls both glasses toward himself then looks up at Judy. “You should be nominated for sainthood.”

She smiles. “What makes you think I’m not?” Then she swirls back around toward the bar.

“Hmm.” David takes a big chug out of one glass. “If I wasn’t married…”

Greg laughs. “Perish the thought.”

“Speaking of not married…”

“Oh no.”

“How’s Mycroft?”

Greg drinks some more from his glass and shakes his head. “Nice segue.” 

“Shit, you’re fighting?”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say –“

“Didn’t you?”

Greg purses his lips and swirls the beer around in his glass. David ‘tut tuts’ then pushes the other full beer Judy left back to Greg’s side of the table. Greg raises his eyebrows.

“Finish that one and move on.”

“You’re talking about the beer, right?”

“So, what’s wrong?”

Greg sighs, tips his glass up and finishes his first beer. He puts the empty glass back on the table then pushes it aside. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Why? Are you cheating on him?”

“Oi!”

David grins. “See, has to be something not as bad.”

“Depends upon your view, I expect.”

David gives Greg a withering stare. “Just give up and tell me. You know I’ll only make up something far too ridiculous or worse, steal your mobile and call Mycroft.”

“All right, all right.” Greg rubs a finger along the edge of the second glass. “It’s work.”

David stares at him blankly for ten seconds until he speaks again, “work?”

“Yeah.”

“Work is causing the arguments?”

“Yeah.”

“God.” David shakes his head. “I thought you weren’t married anymore?”

“Look, if you’re not going to be helpful…”

“You’re supposed to enjoy the early stages, do stupid shit like stay out too late or send ostentatious flowers. You shouldn’t be getting into the ‘why were you working late’ or ‘did you clean the bathroom’ type arguments now.”

“It’s not like that, David, it’s…” Greg sighs. “You know how I am about being a copper.”

David scoffs. “Don’t I ever.”

“That’s Mycroft with the government but worse.”

“Are you saying his house is actually his office, because that’s the level I’m thinking?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Which one haven’t you been to, house or office?”

“House.”

David whistles. “Well, now that might be something more to fight about, I’d think, than your work. It’s been…” David looks at his hand as if counting though Greg knows it’s just show. “Four months, if you don’t count the wooing?”

“About that.”

“Hmm hmm.”

“The point is, he is being a complete dick which I shouldn’t be surprised about but –“

“But nothing, Greg, fix it up,” David interrupts. “I know you really care about him. Even Claire could see that.”

“You don’t know the whole –“

“I don’t need to know.”

“Could you stop interrupting me?

David shakes his head. “All fights are less about the subject matter of the fight and more about someone being hurt. You can hurt someone else a million ways and say that the thing that is wrong is work or how they didn’t make the bed, stupid shit. The real reason for the fight is feelings and if you can fix those then everything else falls into place.”

Greg stares at David. “Is this your philosopher brother routine?”

"I do it all the time.”

“True.”

“Seriously, we all have a finite amount of time, why waste it on stupid fighting when you could be happy? Look at mum and dad, took them twenty years to finally straighten that out.”

“And now they’re in the Bahamas.”

David frowns. “I thought it was Argentina?”

Greg shakes his head. “You’re two weeks behind, don’t you get the postcards?”

“Maybe they love you more.”

Greg glances at his mobile again, no light blinking with a missed call or text. Greg takes a sip of his beer but does not pick up the mobile. Then David leans over the table, picks up the mobile and holds it out to Greg. Greg snatches it, flips it around and clicks the screen to life. He hits Mycroft’s number and puts the mobile to his ear.

‘Good job,’ David mouths at him and takes another long drink of his beer.

Greg only raises his eyebrows as the phone keeps ringing. After the fifth ring it goes to voicemail. Greg listens to the computerized voice until the beep sounds. He opens his mouth but just huffs and hangs up the phone.

David frowns. “It is a two way thing, of course.”

Greg sticks his mobile back in his pocket. “Yup.”

They pick up their beers at the same time, take one gulp and turn back to the football match on the screen.

\----------

Phone receiver against one ear, Greg sits in his office leaning his forehead on the palm of his other hand, arm propped up on his desk. The superintendent in his ear keeps harping on details about the Moriarty case coming up in less than two weeks. Greg has sent everything they had to the solicitors, witnesses set up as well. The superintendent keeps asking probing questions about Sherlock.

“Why should a private investigator be part of this trial? Just because his name was at the crime scene he becomes an expert witness?”

“I’d say that makes him important to the case, sir.”

“That seems more to me like he might be an accomplice. Has your division thoroughly vetted him? Do we need push back the trial date?” And on and on.

Greg wonders if this is what happens when a copper makes it up too high, all they can do is question and criticize? Finally, Greg is able to hang up and breathe freely after promises to send over information from the past cases involving Moriarty, though the solicitors already have those as well. Fortunately, the superintendent did not ask about Sherlock and any other cases.

“Micromanaging…” Greg mutters to himself as he e-mails Gupta to run the files up.

Suddenly, Greg’s office door swings open and Sherlock strides through.

“Knocking?” Greg says hands out to the side.

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock says then steps right up to Greg’s desk and holds out his mobile toward Greg.

“If you want me to fix your mobile, Sherlock, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Sherlock sighs but does not move. Greg crosses his arms and shrugs. Sherlock gives Greg his ‘genius detective’ stare then shakes his wrist with the mobile once.

Greg leans forward and grabs the mobile. “Please tell me this isn’t someone you’ve kidnapped,” then into the mobile, “Hello?”

“Sherlock?” Says the voice, sounding confused.

“Mycroft,” Greg says at the same time that Mycroft on the other end of the line says, “Greg.”

Greg looks back to Sherlock. "What are you, Yente?" 

"You and John…” Sherlock huffs. "Enough with the pop culture references.” 

"It’s _Fiddler on the Roof_ …” 

“Whatever disagreement you are having, solve it. He is calling at least once a day, if not more, with…" Sherlock shakes his head then flicks his hand toward the mobile, "trivialities and I may be forced to commit familial murder if I must suffer to answer my mobile one more time with his voice on the other end!”

“Charming,” Mycroft says.

“So you heard that?” Greg replies.

“Good!” Sherlock snaps, leaning over the desk so he is closer to the mobile, then he straightens, turns and marches out of Greg’s office.

“Your mobile!” Greg calls but Sherlock does not return. Greg rubs a hand over his face. “Christ.”

Greg sits silently, mobile at his ear. The other end of the line stays silent as well, not even any kind of background noise filtering through. For a moment Greg considers just hanging up but this really is a childish game and, though Mycroft hides it most of the time, Greg is the more adult one.

“Look, I’ll start. I’m sorry.” Greg picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it around in his fingers. “I shouldn’t have been pushing you. I know there are things you can’t tell me and I need to just get past that.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft says quietly and Greg very much wishes he could see Mycroft right now.

“I know my job is high pressure but I can only imagine your end.”

“Yes. I suppose you could call it stressful at times. I am glad you realize the distinction. And I will note that it is not I wish to leave you in the dark but that I must.”

Greg nods even though Mycroft cannot see him.

Mycroft clears his throat. “I may have also been somewhat… harsh in my comments on my position on the subject.”

Greg huffs once quietly. “Well, I assume it is a family trait.”

“I do not mean to demean you,” Mycroft insists.

“Mycroft.” Greg puts his pen down and leans forward over his desk. “You haven’t broken me. I am fine. I was just angry, that’s all. One fight, however extended, does not a break up make.”

Mycroft makes a pleased noise much like a purr. “Ah. Well, good.”

“Good.”

“It has been just two weeks since we last saw each other but…” Mycroft clears his throat. “I have…”

“I miss you too, Mycroft.”

Mycroft makes a soft gasp and Greg can see that real smile on his face from here. “Then I shall see you tonight.”

“Dinner?” Greg asks.

“As long as you make it.”

Greg smiles. “Ask and you shall receive.” Then he clicks off the mobile.

That evening, dinner is butternut squash lasagna with sex and wine for dessert.

\----------

Greg and Mycroft walk through the kitchen appliance section of the department store, microwaves on one side of them and an array of glass containers on the other. Mycroft walks swiftly down the aisle, stopping suddenly now and then, so Greg nearly crashes into him, to touch something on a shelf before moving on again.

“You know, you could tell me who we're shopping for.”

Mycroft grumbles. “It makes little difference.”

“Usually it does.”

Mycroft turns a corner out into one of the wider paths through the store. “I simply need something generic, something useful.”

“Well, the kitchen section's a good start, unless this person doesn't cook?”

“She cooks.”

“Oh, a she!” Greg jogs ahead of Mycroft then walks backwards in front of him, hands in pockets. “So, it’s a she and you need to buy her a present for…”

Mycroft sighs and stops walking. “Must you be so gleeful?”

“Well, you've sent me a lot of things I bet you’ve purchased yourself but I’ve never watched you actually buy any of them.”

“And this is an amusement for you?”

“When we’re doing it in a department store, yes.”

Mycroft clicks his teeth together then turns right down an aisle of dinner plates. Greg shifts his feet and follows after. Mycroft picks up one large red plate then puts it down again. He cocks his head at a set of square white plates then keeps walking.

“So, this ‘she,’ a family member? Work colleague? Foreign leader?”

Mycroft stops and turns part way. “I asked you to come to assist, not patronize.”

“I’m not patronizing and I can’t help if I don’t know who this is for or for what.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his forehead. “My mother’s birthday.”

“You have a mother?”

Mycroft opens his eyes again in surprise.

Greg grins. “Kidding. Sort of. Mother then. Your mother is she…” Greg clears his throat. “Is she… like you?”

“Like me?”

“Like you and Sherlock.”

Mycroft breathes in very deeply and tilts his head. “That is a question for the ages.”

Greg stares. “I am deciding to not follow up on that.”

“Wise.”

“Right, kitchen stuff’s good though?”

“We are in this section. I did not choose it at random.”

Greg steps forward and rubs a line down Mycroft’s arm. “Relax, it’s just a present. I know you're capable of buying them.”

“You and my mother are two very different things.”

“Thank God.”

Mycroft sighs. “Well, you have your details now. If you could pull yourself out of witty comebacks and assist me in selecting something that would be preferable.”

Greg kisses Mycroft's cheek then grips his arm. “Come on.”

Greg takes them out of the aisle into one of the open through ways again. He stops and cranes his neck to scan the area. Then he turns back to Mycroft. “Does your mother bake?”

“I had to learn from someone.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

“I hear mothers tend to bake.”

“Pies?”

“Does my mother bake pies?”

“No, do you bake pies?”

“I have.” Greg narrows his eyes until Mycroft smirks. “Yes, my mother can and has baked pies in her time.”

“Great.”

Greg pulls Mycroft along past two aisles then into the third. They pass cookie cutters, rolling pins, and lemon squeezers until they come out the other side close to the escalators. Greg weaves them around one display table and stops in front of another with boxes and one open example. Greg picks up a packaged box and hands it to Mycroft.

He glances down at the box then back up at Greg. “And what is this?”

Greg points at the one on the display. “A mini pie maker.”

Mycroft makes a discomforted face. “A what?”

“You can see it just fine, Mycroft.”

“And why would I buy this?”

“It can be useful and I have heard it called ‘cute.’” Greg taps the box. “Plus, doubt your mother already has one.”

“Very much doubt.”

“So?”

“And why would you think this a good present?”

“Mycroft, it’s somewhat thoughtful, can make delicious one serving size pies, and I do have a mother, sister, and ex-wife of experience to let you know that your mother will probably like it.”

“Because women prefer to bake in small sizes?”

Greg shrugs. “Maybe. I gave one to David and then I got pie.”

Mycroft smiles slowly. “Are you are suggesting your brother has feminine qualities or that I would like pie?”

“Are there people who do not want pie?”

Mycroft finally cracks and laughs. He sighs and looks down at the box. “Well, happy birthday, mother.”

\----------

Greg hears a key in the lock of his front door as he comes out of his bedroom, shoes finally off and put away after a quick shopping trip coming from work that night. He walks out into the hall and sees Mycroft hanging up his coat on a hook by the door. Greg smiles and crosses his arms, watching Mycroft, then he notices the small leather case in Mycroft's hand.

"What's that?"

Mycroft looks up at Greg and smiles. "A surprise."

Greg cocks his head. "What kind of surprise?"

Mycroft just smiles, walks toward Greg and takes his hand. He turns them left toward Greg's bedroom. Greg tries very hard not to let his imagination go straight into the sex toy sewer but the case is leather.

"Um... Mycroft..."

"Do calm yourself, Greg, and trust me." 

"Okay..."

Mycroft stops Greg just in front of the bed then lets go of his hand. He puts the case down on the bed and begins to unbutton his suit jacket. Greg raises his eyebrows but stays where he is. Mycroft takes off his jacket then drapes it over the chair beside Greg's dresser. He loosen the knot in his tie then yanks it off completely, slipping open his top button at the same time.

"You're giving me ideas."

Mycroft chuckles and places his tie with his suit jacket. He removes the black cufflinks from his cuffs and puts them on top of Greg's dresser. Greg smiles for a moment seeing the silver of the cufflinks match the metal of his watch. Then Mycroft rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and steps close to Greg.

"Well?" Greg asks.

Mycroft begins to unbutton Greg's shirt until he has it completely open, Greg doing a good job of keeping his breathing even. Then Mycroft slips it off Greg's shoulders and puts in on the chair. He tilts his head as he looks Greg up and down.

"I would suggest you take your trousers off as well. Beyond that is up to you."

Greg frowns. "Could I have some context?"

"No."

Greg blinks once. "Okay."

Greg pulls off his belt and unbuttons his trousers as Mycroft sits down slightly behind him on the bed and takes off his shoes. Greg bounces a little on one foot as he gets off his trousers and throws them toward his closet. Mycroft's lip twitches when they hit the floor but he says nothing. Greg looks down at himself, what the hell, and pulls his pants off too, throwing them over with the trousers. Mycroft pauses with his second shoe in hand to gaze at Greg. Greg smiles then Mycroft puts his shoe down on the floor.

"Sit," Mycroft says patting the bed beside him.

Greg sits, hands on the comforter, and peers around Mycroft. On Mycroft's other side is the leather case which he opens now. Inside is paint.

"Mycroft..."

Mycroft looks back to Greg. He nods to the side over the bed. "Scoot."

Greg frowns for a moment then scoots himself back across the covers and sits cross legged. Mycroft grazes Greg's hand with his then stands up. "One moment." He turns and walks out of the room.

Greg looks down at the open case, a usual rainbow of paints and three brushes of varying sizes down the middle. The case, while obviously not brand new, is not messy like one imagines paint sets to be. No spots of paint smear the wooden edges or the leather exterior. The hinges in the middle look worn but are not rusted or in disrepair. Greg isn't sure if this means Mycroft cleans his paint case very well or simply does not use it often. He favors the latter.

Mycroft reappears in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and some paper towels in the other. He tilts his head as he looks at Greg sitting naked in the middle of the bed then walks in and puts the glass down on Greg's bedside table. He sits on the edge of the bed, puts down two paper towels and moves the paint case on top of one.

"Are you going to get paint in my bed?" Greg asks.

"Not if I can help it." Then he looks up and makes a circle motion with one finger in the air.

Greg narrows his eyes as Mycroft picks up the middle sized paint brush then he turns around toward the window. He hears Mycroft tap the water glass behind him and hears Mycroft doing something in the paint case. Then the wet paint brush touches his back.

"Shiiiii... okay," Greg hisses.

Mycroft chuckles. "It is not that cold."

"It was a surprise."

"What did you expect?"

"Initially or five seconds ago?"

Mycroft chuckles again.

Greg feels the paint brush swoop up and down his back, Greg quickly adjusting to the cool paint. He tries to figure out the shapes as Mycroft paints. Perhaps a circle? Just another line? Mycroft brushes up and across then lower, though not quite all the way to Greg's arse. Greg decides no pants was the better idea. Greg feels the brush change, the smaller one now as Mycroft makes quick, short strokes at the base of Greg's neck. He feels the brush circle, swirl, then stroke small and rapid under his left shoulder bone. Then the brush changes, a large long line up Greg's left side before the brush shifts again, smaller and on his right, swirling around. He really wishes he could see what was happening, what colors, what images, Mycroft's face as he paints.

"Am I going to have to scrape this off?" Greg asks.

Mycroft scoffs quietly. "Certainly not. It is washable paint."

"That's a thing?"

"It is meant to be used on surfaces such as skin."

"That explains why the case is so clean."

Mycroft ‘hmms’ and the brush swoops over Greg's shoulder. "That and I have had little occasion to use this set."

Greg smiles and watches the light change in the glass of his bedroom window. He whispers, "lucky me."

Mycroft paints for about twenty minutes, all three brushes used at some point over Greg's skin. After a while Greg stops trying to imagine what Mycroft is creating. Instead he narrows his focus down to the feel of the brush and paint on his skin, Mycroft's hand occasionally turning him slightly or dabbing at the paint on his back. Mycroft's finger tips are warm while the paint is cold and Greg feels content to never move.

"There." Greg hears the paint brushes clink in what must be the water glass. 

Greg looks back over his shoulder at Mycroft. The paint case has some mess on it now but Greg sees no paint on the bed or on Mycroft's shirt. "Tidy painter."

Mycroft closes the paint case. "As possible." He touches Greg's back, rubbing a spot on Greg's left side. "Perhaps not as precise here as I could have been."

"You know I can't see it, right?"

Mycroft pulls his mobile from his trouser pocket. He reaches out and turns Greg's head back around. Greg laughs and hears the camera shutter noise from Mycroft's mobile. Then Mycroft taps Greg's shoulder. Greg reaches back and takes Mycroft's held out mobile.

Greg looks at the picture on the screen and hardly recognizes himself as the canvas. "Oh, Mycroft..."

"As we did not reach the beach on our holiday, I felt I could bring the beach to you." Mycroft strokes a line over the back of Greg's neck. "Somewhat."

The painting is indeed of a beach but it is more than that. On the left side are cliffs with green grass on the top, rocks at the base with swirling paint waves of whites and blues. The beach stretches around the base of Greg's back appearing out of the rocks and waves. The beach curves all the way to his side with the ocean, darker paint brushes of tiny waves out in the distance. Mycroft even painted the light blue and gray sky with the hint of a sun through smudges of yellow and orange at the base of Greg's neck.

"Is this real?"

"Well, it is on you, Greg."

Greg laughs. "No, the coast line."

"Ah, well, I would consider it more a combination than one place."

"So, no."

"As you say."

Greg turns around halfway so he can properly see Mycroft. "You know, this is the only painting of yours I have seen?"

"I find it better the first one you see is one made just for you."

Greg bites the edge of his lip and smiles slowly. "You have a point."

"I take it you like it?"

Greg laughs then leans forward and kisses Mycroft hard on the lips. "Oh Mycroft, you can't imagine how much."

\----------

Mycroft sits across from Greg at lunch, most of a sandwich still in front of him. Greg chugs some of his beer, eating too fast but he only has thirty minutes for lunch today.

"Your brother is driving me mad."

Mycroft chuckles. "He is good at that."

"Since your Moriarty is out in the wind now and Sherlock has hit a wall, he keeps coming in every other day to see if we've got anything interesting." Greg picks up a chip then points with his other hand. "His level of interesting of course."

"Surely he has enough cases coming to him on their own?"

Greg shrugs. "Apparently not. He's probably still burnt about the trial outcome."

"I doubt he expected- " Then Mycroft cuts himself off and touches his water glass, though he does not pick it up.

"Were you about to say something like 'I told you so?’”

Mycroft looks up at Greg. "No, I was not."

Greg picks up his last piece of fish and dunks it in some tartar sauce. "Anyway, hope he doesn't come in today as I have meetings and can't have him dragging me out." Greg sighs. "Almost wish he still had Moriarty to work on."

"Greg..."

"No, no, don't worry." Greg waves a hand between them and takes a bite of his fish. "Not actually serious."

"Greg, I should tell..." Mycroft stops and stares at the wall beside their table.

Greg watches him as he slowly chews. "What?"

"There are things which... plans that will..."

Greg swallows and puts his hands flat on the table. "Mycroft, what is it?"

"I want to..." He breathes in slowly and adjusts his fork on the table so it is parallel with the wall. He smiles thinly and looks up at Greg. "Only I am sure we have not seen the last of Jim Moriarty."

"Hmm." Greg taps the table and leans back in his chair. Mycroft looks at him for a moment then takes another small bite of his sandwich, barely a third of the whole gone. Greg moves on. "Well, if you're right then you and Sherlock can leap into action again."

"Greg..."

"I know, I know. I'm not asking, just saying glad the two of you are on our side." Greg smiles. "See, positive outlook."

Mycroft stares at him. He frowns but quickly turns it up into a smile. "Of course."

"You all right?" Mycroft blinks and gives Greg a look as though he might jump up and run away from the table. "I take it you've not been having the best day?"

Mycroft chuckles breathlessly. "I am fine, Greg, only seeing you at times awakens something in me I thought absent."

"And what is that?"

"Honesty."

"You are honest, Mycroft, at least with me."

Mycroft sighs heavily. "Oh Greg, as I can be."

"You're starting to freak me out a little." Greg reaches out and touches Mycroft's hand. "Look, please do not worry about me or what you wish you could say. Yes, we hit a rough bit but I'm just going to have to accept some secrecy, right?"

"True."

"Well, there we are. And that is all right." He pulls his hand back and sees the time on his watch. "Shit."

"Your meetings?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry to leave you."

"As am I."

Greg smiles and stands up, picks up his coat off the back of his chair. He steps around the table, leans over and kisses Mycroft. "Call me tonight, all right?"

"I will."

\----------

Greg's car and Mycroft's car arrive at the same time in front of the gala, Mycroft's car pulling up right behind Greg's. When Greg steps out of the car a valet is already there ready to take his keys and give him a ticket. Greg hands over his keys and resists readjusting his black bowtie for the tenth time. He has probably worn a tuxedo twice in his life before and every time he has only lasted an hour with the bowtie. Third time's the charm.

As he walks around the back of his car to the curb, Mycroft is waiting there for him in tuxedo tails and a white bowtie.

Greg smiles. "Hmm, you look gorgeous."

"And you in a tuxedo."

"Not quite as fancy as your tails but shouldn't show you up at your own gala."

Mycroft humphs. "Hardly mine."

"Well, I wouldn't be here among the parliament elite without you."

Mycroft nods. "I concede."

Then they turn and walk up the stairs past various fancy dressed clusters of people who obviously had something very important to talk about before they could go inside. When they reach the top, Mycroft hands two silver lined invitations to one of the black suited men by the door who simply waves them on. Greg keeps himself close to Mycroft's side feeling a bit out of his depth here where the clothes are probably worth a month's paycheck and the politics is palpable in the air.

"I am surprised you invited me," Greg says low as they walk through the large doors.

Mycroft glances at him. "Why?"

Greg shrugs. "Bringing your bit of rough copper boyfriend to an upper class, fancy gala."

Mycroft huffs. "You are not rough."

"You sure?"

"And you do enjoy throwing that word 'boyfriend' around."

"Too official for you?"

"Too juvenile."

"Then I will definitely keep using it."

Mycroft sighs. "Glorious." He picks up two champagnes from an obliging waiter and hands one to Greg. "I am not ashamed of you, Greg. Nor will bringing a man with me to this event damage my position or reputation in any way, if that is what you are worried about."

Greg smiles slowly. "I wouldn't have used the word worried, more like concerned."

"Well, no need."

Greg ducks his head then grips Mycroft's hand, rubbing a small circle near Mycroft's thumb. He looks up again. "Good." Then Greg lets go and takes a big drink of his champagne. "This mean I'm going to have to meet people?"

Mycroft frowns. "If we could avoid speaking to anyone I would be the happiest man in London."

"Meaning, yes?"

"Unfortunately."

They spend the next hour and a half 'mingling' or, as Greg would characterize Mycroft's version, 'ducking.' When possible Mycroft steers them clear of individuals who want to talk to Mycroft or grill him about this or that security decision. 'Unprofessional,' Mycroft keeps muttering paired with intense groans. One would think Mycroft did not enjoy socializing!

Of course, they do end up talking to some people. Most only want to talk about work and half of them completely ignore Greg. Mycroft seems to enjoy cutting them off without warning to say, "and this is my partner, D.I. Greg Lestrade" which is guaranteed to derail any conversation for at least some period of time. Greg suspects they are all so surprised Mycroft is seeing someone they forget how to speak. Plus, every time Mycroft uses the word partner Greg has to concentrate on not blushing.

"Holmes!"

"Oh, good lord."

Greg glances behind them as a ginger with sleek, frameless glasses zigzags around people toward them. "Should I be afraid?"

"Yes."

Then the man latches on to Mycroft's arm, twirling him around. Mycroft looks as though he may vomit and quickly tugs his arm free. 

"You actually came?" The man laughs high. "Is it a full moon?"

"I always attend the appropriate engagements, Clyde, there is no need to dramatize."

Clyde chuckles again. "Appropriate, right." 

He glances at Greg then does a double take and starts staring. Greg has the strong urge to take a step back. 

Clyde smiles wide and holds out his hand to Greg. "Clyde Smith." (He is the first one at the party to introduce himself).

"Greg Lestrade."

"Don't tell me you're Mycroft's date?"

"Well..."

"Clyde," Mycroft starts but Clyde cuts him off with a loud clap of his hands.

"By golly, this is the one, isn't it?" Mycroft sighs heavily. "The one you were sending those presents to?" Clyde turns to Greg. "He was very sneaky and quiet about it, believe me. But I managed to get Janet in his office to crack about what it was that was making Mycroft actually smile and not just haughtily sneer."

"Oh right?" Greg says turning a smile to Mycroft.

Mycroft only frowns at Clyde. "As a pleasure it is to see you, Clyde, I do have other individuals to speak with."

"Of course you do. Wouldn't mind if I borrow Greg here then!" Clyde looks at Greg, pointing back over his shoulder. "One dance and I bet I can get all sorts of interesting information about Mycroft from you."

Greg's mouth drops open. "Well, I, uh..."

"As a matter of fact," Mycroft says sliding between Clyde and Greg, "I do mind. Good evening." Then he pushes Greg forward by his waist before sliding to Greg's side, arm kept tight around Greg as if Clyde might dash forward and drag Greg bodily back.

"Take it not your favorite person?" Greg asks.

"I rue the day that man became an intelligence officer." Mycroft grumbles. "And there is certainly not a chance he will dance with you before I do, let alone at all."

"Is that a request?"

Mycroft stops walking and lets go of Greg. He stands still for two beats then looks at Greg. "I wasn't..." Mycroft clears his throat. "Do you wish to?"

"Are you asking me or worried I am going to say yes?"

Mycroft shakes his head and looks away. "Sherlock was always the dancer..."

Greg blinks fast. "What?"

"Are you... are you interested in dancing?"

Greg chuckles. "Mycroft, if you want to ask me to dance then just ask me."

Mycroft turns back to Greg and takes his hand. "Would you dance with me?"

Greg smiles. "Sure."

They weave through the guests, around some white clothed tables, until they reach the dance floor. Mycroft grips Greg's hand tighter and walks them out onto the floor. 

Mycroft hesitates for a few beats then Greg pulls him close. "I'll lead."

"If you insist."

Greg pulls them forward into a waltz to match the classical music and the other dancers around them. Greg keeps Mycroft close to him, arm around Mycroft's back, until the tension eases from Mycroft's muscles. Greg does not exactly keep to perfect form but Mycroft appears to be good at following and they do not stumble or tread on each other.

"We don't have to dance if you don't want to," Greg says quietly. "Wasn't pressuring you."

"I do want to dance with you," Mycroft insists quickly. "Simply, it is not an activity I commonly do."

"Didn't learn it at prep school?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Amusing, Greg. I did learn under some duress when younger but I have rarely practiced the skill since."

"All right then." Greg twirls them to the right. "You can dance with me then to make up for lost time."

Mycroft smirks. "Are you exceptionally fond of dancing?"

"Hmm, with the right partner."

They turn again, Greg moving them a bit quicker, and sliding them around another couple. Mycroft smiles and presses himself closer to Greg, close enough to kiss. 

"You do look lovely in your tuxedo."

Greg bites the edge of his lip. "It's rented."

"I know."

Greg kisses Mycroft once. "Thank you for liking it anyway."

"I like you in it."

"Good."

They turn again, waltz in proper time, and Greg glides them through a little twirl which makes Mycroft smile. Then Anthea suddenly appears on Mycroft's left making them both stop dead.

"Sir, there is a problem."

Mycroft frowns deeply. "You must be joking."

Anthea leans closer and whispers something rapidly in Mycroft's ear before pulling back again. Mycroft's hands fall from Greg and he takes one step backward. He nods at Anthea and she trots quickly away through the people. Mycroft looks down at the floor, his hands clenching, then looks up again.

"What is it?"

"We need to leave."

"We?"

"I need to and I will not leave you here."

Greg sighs. "You can't or you won't?"

Mycroft gives him a look. 

"I know, I know." Greg rubs a hand over his hair. "Can you tell me if... I mean, you don't have to fly to Iran or something?"

Mycroft laughs once breathlessly. "No."

"Good."

Mycroft holds out a hand for Greg to walk before him. Greg shakes his head once but walks forward, Mycroft close behind him. They leave through the same door, Mycroft passing off Greg's valet ticket. Greg walks down the steps with Mycroft speaking softly into his phone beside Greg. Greg knows he shouldn't be angry but it was the first time they danced together.

"Greg?"

Greg turns to Mycroft. "Yeah?"

"I am sorry, I wanted..." He sighs then runs his fingers through Greg's hair. "I'm sorry."

"I know. It's all right."

Mycroft smiles sadly. "Perhaps there will be a time when work will not endeavor to pull us apart."

Greg shrugs. "Maybe when we retire."

"Oh, dreams." Then Mycroft pulls Greg to him and kisses him. "We will have to dance again soon."

"Please," Greg whispers back.

\----------

“Clipton?”

“All the witness statements are in. There were two people reportedly at the scene we weren’t able to track down. Brooks is on it.”

Greg nods and makes a note in the file in front of him then turns to Anderson. “Anderson?”

Anderson holds out a paper. “A lot of circumstantial evidence, cause of death was the same as determined at the scene.”

Greg takes the piece of paper. “Joy.”

“PC Bradford is looking up a lead on some of the partial finger prints.”

Greg frowns. “Oh?”

“Thinks he’s Sherlock or something,” Clipton fills in.

Anderson frowns and shoots Clipton a glare. Then he looks back to Greg. “I’ll let you know if he finds anything.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t waste the day on it if it’s nothing.” Greg points between the two of them. “Follow up with Donovan. She has some press asking questions, all right?”

They both nod and stand up. Clipton pushes his chair back against the wall as Anderson marches out the door. Greg knows Anderson is still angry about Greg asking Sherlock in on the case from yesterday. Greg thinks Anderson just needs to get over it; they’d still be working the case now instead of solving it the day of with Sherlock’s help. Greg closes the case folder and puts it in his ‘in progress’ pile. He should probably assign a couple more PCs to it to help run leads. It’s a bit of a bare case but with a stabbing it shouldn’t be something they can’t close.

“D.I. Lestrade?”

Greg looks up to see a woman in a pale yellow blouse in his doorway. “Yes?”

She holds up a violet card with a small box obviously taped to it. “Delivery for you.”

Greg presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows. “Ah ha.”

She steps into his office and holds them out. Greg takes both, turning them around in his hand once, and nods at her. “Thank you.”

She just smiles back then turns and walks out of his office again. Greg leans back in his chair and holds up the card and box. He pulls the two apart, placing the little box down on his desk. He flips the card around a few times in his hand, nothing on the front and the flap tucked into the back. He smiles, pulls it open and takes out the card.

“The M,” he whispers and flips open the violet card.

_For when your formal wear requires the usual tie._

_-M. Holmes_

Greg frowns and puts the card down, picking up the box instead. The box is black, not wrapped, and has a small ribbon poking out of the edge. Greg pulls it and the top comes off. Inside is a circular, onyx tie pin with a border of gold. Greg smiles and touches the edge of the pin. Then he puts down the box and picks up his desk phone.

Mycroft answers after three rings. “Yes?”

“A tie pin?” Mycroft just makes a soft ‘hmm’ noise of either pleasure or amusement, maybe both. “I think I do own a few already.”

“Do you?”

“Somewhere.”

“Well, I hope this one will rank higher.”

Greg laughs. “Think you’re special?”

“Am I?”

Greg dips his head and rests his knuckles against his temple. “Of course.”

“Then I expect you to wear it on occasion.”

“I will.”

“I ask no more than that.” A door closes in the background and Greg imagines Mycroft is alone now.

"You don't have to keep sending me cards and notes and presents, you know." Greg smiles as he fingers a corner of the card. "You've already got me, no need to woo."

Mycroft is silent for a minute, long enough that Greg begins to worry he said something wrong, then Mycroft clears his throat quietly. "The written word is proof of something, proof of action or intention. My line of work, as I am certain you know, often requires, well, tries to avoid such written accounts. But with you, I… I want there to be proof of this."

Greg thinks corny things, ridiculous things, ‘there’s proof in my heart’ or ‘you in my arms is proof.’ Instead he says, “then I’m glad I’ve kept all the cards,” which isn’t much less romantic if he truly thinks about it.

Mycroft makes a slightly chastising noise. “Well, expect for the one you sent back.”

Greg huffs. “That’s not fair.”

“Hmm, simply pointing it out.”

“I did also tear one up.”

“What?”

Greg clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I see.”

“Mycroft…” Greg touches the card again then slides his hand off the desk. “There is proof of us without your notes and cards. Trust me.”

Mycroft is silent for a while then he sighs in a happy way, “good bye, Greg.”

Greg grins. “Bye.”

When he hangs up, Greg pulls a black tie from his desk drawer. He buttons his top button, pops his collar, ties a Windsor knot on the first try, then flips his collar back down. He picks up the box then works the tie pin out. He pushes the pin through the tie and his shirt then fixes the safety on the back. He slides his hand over the tie and pin once then moves the box into the desk drawer where the tie came from and closes it.

\----------

Greg washes plates in his kitchen sink, Frank Sinatra playing in the background. Mycroft roots through Greg’s cupboards beside him.

“You must have some sort of plastic storage…”

“Tupperware.”

“That is a brand.”

“Whatever.”

Mycroft sighs as he finally finds what appears to be a matching square container and lid. “The point is, most individuals are overburdened with these, mismatched containers and tops, while you appear to only have one.”

Greg frowns. “I don’t usually have left overs.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft glances at the dishes in the sink. “True.”

Greg grins. “No one can stop eating my food.”

“You clearly have a profession to fall back on.”

“If crime should ever stop, for example?”

Mycroft smiles and walks back toward the stove and what is left of the peach cobbler Mycroft made them for dessert. Greg smiles as he watches Mycroft carefully cut pieces which will fit in the container.

“We finally made a meal together,” Greg says.

Mycroft looks up and licks some filling off one finger. “And a fine meal it was.”

“Never go wrong with chicken.”

“And I do appreciate the salad.”

Greg points at Mycroft with one soapy finger. “Though, I am telling you. You need to stop stressing about –“

“Please, spare me your flattery.”

Greg purses his lips. “Never, gorgeous.”

Mycroft clicks his teeth and narrows his eyes at Greg. Greg only grins back and rinses off the tongs before putting them on the drying rack. Mycroft clicks the plastic top into place with extra force then walks around Greg and puts it in the refrigerator.

“I am probably going to eat that all in one sitting when you’re not here,” Greg says nodding toward the refrigerator.

“I made it for you. You may eat it as you like.”

“Not worried I’ll get fat?”

Mycroft pinches Greg in the side so he gasps. “No need to tease.”

Greg holds his hands under the hot water and glares at Mycroft. Mycroft picks up the half-finished bottle of wine and leans in the doorway as 'You Make Me Feel So Young' plays. Paired with the mood music, Mycroft looks very much like dessert part two. Greg shuts off the water and picks up a dish towel from the handle of the refrigerator.

“If you keep giving me that look we’re going to end up breaking something in the kitchen again.”

Mycroft rocks the wine bottle from side to side in his hand. “You didn’t really need that bowl anyway.”

“It was nice bowl.”

“Hardly.”

“Well, the table was nice.”

“And it still is.”

Greg smirks, tossing the cloth aside, and steps forward, kissing Mycroft’s neck on his pulse point twice. Then he takes the wine bottle from Mycroft’s hand and walks into the hall. Mycroft makes a soft groaning noise of displeasure.

“Oh!” Greg spins in place, handing the wine back to Mycroft then jogging toward the bedroom. “Almost forgot.” 

He grabs two small boxes off his dresser, shoving one in his back pocket. He opens the other box and pulls the watch inside out. He walks slowly back out into the hall and holds up the watch.

Mycroft tilts his head to the side. “Ah. That is familiar.”

Greg nods. “I found it in my desk at work.” He glances at it then back to Mycroft. “You sent it to me around Christmas, when I was still with Anne.”

“You did not send it back but…”

“But I never wore it, yeah. I, uh… I think I was feeling some guilt at the time.” Greg puts the watch face on top of his wrist then turns his wrist over. He starts to slide the leather band in one handed then Mycroft reaches out and fastens the hook instead. Greg looks up at Mycroft. “I’d forgotten all about it. So, belated thank you.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Happy Christmas.”

“And.” Greg pulls the box out of his pocket and holds it out. “For you.”

Mycroft takes the box. “A watch?”

Greg smiles. “I know you usually wear your pocket watch but I thought for the few times when you’re not wearing the full three-piece…” He gestures at the box.

Mycroft opens the box and slips out the watch, brown leather band with a gold frame, white face, gold hands and dashes for the numbers. 

He looks up at Greg again, “I am not wearing my pocket watch now,” and hands him the watch. 

Greg takes it and puts it around Mycroft’s wrist, tightening it into place. “Prefect.”

Turning his wrist over, Mycroft stares at the face for a few seconds before dropping his arm down and snapping the box closed. 

“Thank you. It is charming.”

“You can’t be the only one giving gifts.”

“Heaven forbid.”

The flat goes silent for one moment as the song changes then ‘Fly me to the Moon’ beings to play. Greg smiles and takes Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft frowns then his eyes widen as he figures it out just before Greg tugs Mycroft forward into his arms.

"Greg..."

“Let me play among the stars,” Greg sings.

“I don’t know if –“

“Too late.”

Greg wraps his arm around Mycroft and twirls them backward down the hall into the living room. He rocks then side to side and turns them around, Mycroft still resisting somewhat, into the middle of the room.

“Greg…”

“In other words, baby, kiss me…”

“You don’t need to sing along.”

“You don’t like it?” Greg kisses Mycroft and turns him again, just missing the coffee table.

Mycroft still glares but Greg sees his lips turning up regardless. They rock from side to side, Greg keeping Mycroft close against him as Frank sings them on. Greg dips Mycroft to the side just a little and laughs as Mycroft finally starts to smile.

“Ah ha.”

The watch box clatters to the floor as Mycroft slides his hand up Greg's back. He pulls Greg forward, stumbling a step, then turns them the opposite way to the big band music. Mycroft kisses Greg again as Greg takes back the lead, letting his hand slip low on Mycroft’s back, sliding them toward the windows then into the middle once more. 

“I did say we needed to dance again,” Mycroft whispers, lips close to Greg’s.

Greg smiles. “Good.”

They turn and twist and rock back and forth and dance chest to chest around Greg’s living room, better than any ballroom or gala could offer.

\----------

Greg runs up concrete stairs, the lift too slow for him to take, passing floor after floor until he hits the right one and bursts though. He pauses only to reorient himself then rushes on to the right down a hall and past offices.

The replay loops in his head as he hurries over the wood floors. Donovan skidding into his office and nearly bashing into his desk, saying “Sherlock…” John standing in one of the interrogation rooms with an untouched coffee on the table, arms around himself. “He jumped. He jumped. Do you hear me!” Kicking the chair into the table so the coffee sloshes everywhere and the mug shatters on the floor. John gasping and falling back against the wall, arms at his side; John staring at him with dead eyes. “Do you?” Molly whispering over the phone, “yes, it’s true.”

Greg skids around a corner until he sees Mycroft’s office. He slows himself down into a very brisk walk and goes right by all the desks and people he should check with. He hears a ‘sir, wait’ thrown at his back but he opens Mycroft’s office without even a knock. No one is inside. He turns around and spots Anthea two desks away.

He strides over and stops right beside her. “Where is he?”

“I can call –“

“No, where is he?”

“D.I. Lestrade, calm down a minute, he –“

“Is he in a foreign country or classified meeting?”

“I - no, he’s not.”

“Then where is he?”

She sighs. “Home.”

“Home.” Greg gasps a laugh and shifts one foot back. “Home, I... I don’t…”

Anthea picks up a post it stack and pen from her desk. She writes on one post it then pulls it off the top. She puts the stack and pen down then holds out the post it to him.

“There.”

Greg takes the post it. “Thank you.” Then turns away.

After what is likely a multiple speeding ticket worthy drive through London, Greg parks his car by the curb in front of a fine but not overly ostentatious row home. Greg glances at the post it note then up at the house just to be sure. He turns off the car and opens the door. Greg stands beside his car and stares at the house. He blows out a slow breath of air then walks around toward the house. He stops at the bottom of the three stairs up to the front door. Running a hand through his hair, Greg pulls his mobile from his pocket and selects Mycroft’s number.

“Greg?”

“Hi.”

“Well, I assume you have heard.”

“Mycroft, I… I’m so sorry.”

“Do not apologize.”

“But if it was because of –“

“I said, do not apologize.” Mycroft sighs. “You were always one of the few Sherlock could count on whether he said so or not.”

Greg swallows and puts his hand on his hip. “You, uh… are you…”

“Greg…”

“I’m outside,” Greg blurts out.

“I – you’re what?”

“Your house. I’m outside your house.”

Mycroft sighs again. “Greg, you are unbelievable.”

Greg shakes his head. “Sorry, I… I realized… well, didn’t know if you’d actually want to talk to anyone or not.”

Mycroft hangs up then a second later the front door opens. Mycroft stands in the door way, tie loose and tired expression on his face. 

Greg drops his mobile hand down to his side. “Hi.”

Mycroft steps to the side. “Won’t you come in?”

Greg walks up the steps and past Mycroft through the door. Greg gives the hall a quick look, dark brown wood, stairs, and some sort of Oriental rug on the floor. Then the door closes and Greg turns around back to Mycroft. Mycroft leans back against the door and crosses his arms. They watch each other silently until Mycroft stands up straight again.

“We may as well be comfortable.” He walks past Greg toward the stairs. “Follow me.”

Mycroft leads Greg up the stairs and then into a large room with windows on both sides and a fireplace straight ahead. Mycroft walks toward the fireplace and to a small table with square glass bottles on top. Greg’s eyes wander around the room, very old British with heavy fabric and dark hues and a golden chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. He pauses at the suit of armor and horse by the one window and frowns.

“Drink?”

Greg looks at Mycroft again now holding out a glass. “No, thanks." He chews the edge of his lip. "And how many have you had?”

“Oh dear, Greg, do not vault into some panic mode.”

“I think this would be a good time for that.”

Mycroft sighs and puts the glass down on the table. “It is never a good time to panic.”

Greg walks forward slowly. “Is this shock? Is this your form of shock?”

Mycroft frowns. “It seems more like you are the one in shock.”

“Well, I…” Greg sighs and stops beside one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace. “I just want to be sure you’re all right. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Mycroft opens his mouth then closes it again. He puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. It takes Greg a moment to realize Mycroft is surprised. Greg steps forward and touches Mycroft’s arm. 

Mycroft looks up at him again. “Do not fret, Greg.”

“Mycroft, of course I am going to –“

“It is not surprising that one day Sherlock would have found a reason to die.”

Greg’s mouth falls open. “Mycroft…”

Mycroft steps back. “My brother and I do not get along, Greg, you know this. There is no need to coddle and ensure I do not break down.”

Greg shakes his head. “Mycroft, you can’t convince me that you didn’t care because we both know how much you always did for him.”

Mycroft bites the edge of his lip and stares toward the windows to his right. “Yes.”

“Look,” Mycroft’s eyes tick back to Greg and Greg holds up his hands. “We don’t have to talk or anything. I just want to be here with you, okay?”

“I see.”

Greg cocks his head to the side and keeps Mycroft’s eye contact. “Is that all right?”

Mycroft pulls one hand from his pocket to rub over his tie before putting it back again and stares at Greg. Greg waits for Mycroft to shout, to walk away, to throw him out but Mycroft just stands there.

“Is that all right?” Greg repeats.

“Yes, I… hmm, I am simply unused to the idea of someone wishing to be with me in times of apparent crisis.”

Greg steps forward again and grips Mycroft’s wrists, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He slides his hands down into Mycroft’s and squeezes. “I guess you’re just going to have to get used to that.”

Mycroft looks down at their hands then up at Greg again. “I suppose I will.”

Greg lets go of Mycroft’s hands, pulls him close and kisses him. He kisses Mycroft hard, slides one hand up to the back of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft clutches at Greg's back, breathing into their kiss like he just remembered how. Greg kisses Mycroft, scratches his nails at the base of Mycroft’s hair, and smiles against Mycroft’s lips.

“You will get used to it, Mycroft.” Greg kisses Mycroft and holds him tight. “Because I am not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone that has been reading and been so supportive with kudos and comments. It has been such a joy writing this story and it is a bittersweet moment now that I finally end it. Thank you all for reading!


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